Hannah turned slowly, surveying the room. Sighing, she shook her head. The bed didn’t even have a wrinkle in it. “I knew something was wrong. Last night, she seemed agitated that she might not have anything to do today.”
Naomi folded her arms and stared down at the floor. “I don’t understand this. Where would she go? Why would she go?”
~~~
Thirty-Five
Naomi felt so badly for Mollie. Seated across the kitchen table from her, the girl sat beside Hannah and sipped her coffee without any enthusiasm. She stared down into the steaming cup, her expression forlorn, and sighed. “Sadly, I think I know where she might have gone.”
“I don’t understand, Mollie,” Naomi said, frustrated by Amanda’s unexpected departure. “Why would she leave? This was her chance for a whole new future.”
“I’ve been in this town over two years now. I saw girls get proposed to all the time. And a few of the men doing the asking were really good men. But, sometimes …” She licked her lips as she tried to find the words. “Sometimes, the girls would bolt at the last second and go right back to working in the saloon. It didn’t make any sense to me until one day a gal told me she was too far gone. That life beats you down. Makes you believe you’re nothing. That you don’t deserve anything better.” Mollie’s chin quivered, “I came too close to believing that lie.”
Hannah reached over and took her friend’s hand. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Mollie squeezed her hand in return and nodded. Naomi watched the interaction, pleased that these two had become friends. They needed each other, and each held the other accountable.
Mollie patted Hannah’s hand and started to rise. “I’ll meet you at the mercantile. Let me see if I can find her.”
Hannah held on. “I’ll go with you if you like.”
“Uh, no, no, that’s all right. You go on. I’ll be along shortly.”
The wiggle in Mollie’s voice worried Naomi and she determined wherever the girl was headed, she wasn’t going alone.
~~~
Much to Naomi’s dismay, she headed for Tent Town.
Holding the hem of her simple, beige homespun dress out of the dust, she dogged Mollie’s path from a discreet distance. The girl wound her way through cribs—the one-room shacks reserved for prostitutes—and ragged tents to the dark heart of Defiance.
The tantalizing aroma of frying bacon and sizzling venison mingled with the stench of urine and unwashed bodies. Many of the working girls sat outside their abodes, half-dressed, faces gaunt, liquor bottles in their hands. Unlike the haughty Flowers formerly of the Iron Horse, these girls would not look at Naomi as she passed. The hopelessness here broke her heart. She couldn’t imagine how it made Mollie feel.
She could have been any one of these girls.
But the reverse was also true, and that’s why they were wading through this tide of broken spirits searching for Amanda.
The men here, some walking down the narrow, weedy street, some sitting in front of their bedraggled tents, watched Mollie with brazen stares, and then Naomi as she passed by moments later. To Mollie’s credit, she strode with her head held high, eyes politely averted. Naomi attempted to do the same as she scurried past the men, but the deeper she wandered in to Tent Town, the more alone she felt. She didn’t belong here and Charles would be furious with her for this expedition, one she regretted a little more with every wink and hungry grin cast her way.
Lord, I’m not sure this was the smartest thing to do. Please keep us safe … and help us find Amanda.
Mollie left the dusty main road, which was little more than a rutted path, and cut through a small neighborhood of weather-beaten tents built on flimsy, wooden foundations. An older man sat outside of one, shaving with a straight razor. His water bowl rested on a tree stump and his mirror hung from a stripped pine sapling. He watched her walk around the edge of his camp, but only as a reflex. Bored with her, he went back to the spot above his lip and ignored Naomi completely as she hurried through. Thankful for his inattention, she skirted around another dwelling and emerged onto a row of surprisingly new, crisp, white tents. Too close to Mollie, she stepped back and peered around the corner, peeking through the needles of a scraggly cedar.
Mollie had stopped. Naomi followed the path of her gaze and realized she had spotted Amanda sitting outside the next tent, rolling a stocking up one leg. Mollie’s shoulders slumped and she walked slowly up to the girl. “Amanda, what are you doing here?” The disappointment in Mollie’s voice tugged at Naomi’s heart.
Startled, Amanda dropped her leg and stood up. The surprise quickly changed to disinterest. Waving her hand dismissively, the girl dropped back down to her log seat. Wearing nothing but a dingy camisole and simple petticoat, she hiked the undergarment up to her thigh to finish with her stockings. “I decided I don’t like the idea of being beholden to Mr. McIntyre.”
“That’s an excuse and you know it.” Amanda spun on the log, turning her back on her guest, and started working a stocking up her other leg. Mollie’s hands clenched into fists. “You’re afraid.”
Amanda’s hands slowed. “I ain’t afraid.” But there was no conviction in her voice.
“Yes, you are.” Mollie softened her tone and walked around to face Amanda. “You’re afraid you don’t have what it takes to walk away from this. To take responsibility for yourself instead of letting men use you.”
Amanda’s head jerked up. “You shouldn’t be so holier-than-thou. I’ve seen girls like you try to change.”
“They always come back to it,” a gruff voice taunted from inside the tent. The flap flicked up and a man stepped out. He was tall, with unkempt chestnut hair that flew in every direction. His shirt, half-tucked and wrinkled, hung open, and his suspenders lounged lazily on his hips. He rubbed Amanda’s shoulders and stared at Mollie. Only able to see the man from the back, Naomi could see his rigid stance that seemed defiant. “In a year, you’ll give up and come right back to what you know.” He squeezed Amanda’s shoulders and handed her a tin flask. “Ain’t that right, Amanda?”
Amanda didn’t say anything. With shaky hands, she uncorked the flask and took a swig. She paused for a moment, as if the liquid sliding down her throat brought her peace. Mollie stared at the container. “What is that?”
The man took it out of Amanda’s hand and raised it for Mollie to see. “Why, this is my special brew. Amanda said she had an affinity for laudanum and bourbon—”
“Laudanum?” Mollie growled through clenched teeth. She dropped to her knees in front of Amanda. “Is that why you left? Are you addicted?”
Naomi bit her lip to stifle a gasp. What a mess the girl had gotten herself into. She was tempted to step out of hiding, but Mollie spoke before she could.
“Amanda, please come back to the hotel with me. We can get you cleaned up, we can help you—”
The man shoved Mollie, knocking her on her bottom, and jerked Amanda to her feet. “Amanda and I have more business inside. Take your preachin’ someplace else.”
Naomi started forward, but thought better of interfering. Something told her that Mollie had to handle this. Clenching her fists, she settled back and prayed she was doing the right thing by sitting this out … unless the man touched Mollie again.
“All right.” Mollie climbed to her feet, her gaze locked on Amanda. “I just want to say one thing: You do not have to live like this. There’s a way out. Find me when you’re ready.”
“Sure,” the girl whispered dreamily.
The despair on Mollie’s face said she’d hit a spiritual brick wall. Sad for Mollie as well as Amanda, Naomi lowered her head and turned away.
At a weedy, tramped down intersection a few yards off, she stopped to wait for Mollie. To her right, laundry and tents swayed in the breeze. On her left, the Broken Spoke Saloon loomed like a house of horror and she shuddered. The canvas had torn in several places, especially on top. Ripped sides flicked noisily in the breeze. The wood façade, warped and twisted, barely
gave the front door anything to hang onto and it sagged as if a giant had tugged on it.
Rose had gone to work there after leaving the Iron Horse. She had attacked Diamond Lil in there, blinding the woman, and planned her attack on the sisters from there. She was rotting in the state prison now, and this saloon, closed for the last several weeks, was doing the same thing. Charles, the Broken Spoke’s owner, had shut it down too.
Naomi shivered, glad she’d never had to see the inside of such a place.
“Did you follow me?”
Naomi flinched, unsure of whether Mollie sounded upset or pleased. She turned to her friend who was slowly walking toward her. The girl carried herself straight and tall, but her expression was tense. Naomi sighed and shoved her hands into her pockets. “I’m sorry, Mollie, but I didn’t think it was safe for you to come over here by yourself.”
After a moment, the tension left her and she smiled, though it was a sad one. “I guess you heard then?” Naomi nodded. Mollie wagged her head. “I don’t know what to do. She’s throwing away such an incredible opportunity.”
The two girls ambled along, side by side, their heads bowed with defeat. “You can’t help people who don’t want to change—even God lets us make our own choices, Mollie. And He doesn’t force Himself on us.” Naomi thought the words sounded like platitudes and she wished God had made her more compassionate. “At least Amanda knows there is a place she can go. That we’ll take her in—”
She heard Mollie gasp and wheeled around reflexively. A man had spun the girl to face him and was digging his fingers into her shoulder. “Lordy, Lordy,” the mostly-toothless, bald miner sang. “If it ain’t little Daisy, the Flower that spouts Bible speeches!”
Mollie snatched free from the man’s grip and stepped back. Paling at the sight of him, she whispered, “Tom Hawthorn.”
Naomi didn’t know the man, but she recognized the name. Hawthorn had nearly killed Mollie last November. Naomi had unfortunately arrived for the aftermath of the brutal beating. Vicious bruises on the girl’s face and ribs, the bloody, broken nose and swollen eyes all smacked of a man with some deadly demons.
Mollie took another step back and raised her chin. Naomi felt a surge of pride. Oh, she had been beaten, but this man had not broken her. Hawthorn had served thirty days in jail, followed by Charles banishing him from town. His return testified to either a mental disorder or a death wish.
Mollie echoed her thoughts. “You’ve taken leave of your senses, Hawthorn. Mr. McIntyre sent you packing. He won’t like it that you’re back without his permission.”
The miner blinked and the unmistakable stink of alcohol hit Naomi. Dread wiggled in her gut as his lip curled into an ugly sneer. He cursed, taking the Lord’s name in vain, and stepped toward Mollie. Naomi took a step toward Hawthorn.
Hawthorn ignored her and leaned down to within an inch of Mollie’s face. “I don’t care what McIntyre likes. I’m a free man and I’ll go and come as I please. I got a stake in a claim here and ain’t leaving it just because he says so.”
“If you hurt me, he’ll come after you. You’re already in a lot of trouble.”
Hawthorn laughed, an evil cackle that made the hairs rise up on Naomi’s arms, and he grabbed hold of Mollie. “You and me got things to do, missy. And if you try that Jesus talk on me again, I’ll snap your neck like a twig.”
“Take your filthy hands off of her right now.” Livid, Naomi tried to force herself between the two people. She could barely contain her rage. She absolutely hated this kind of man, the kind who got his courage from a bottle and preferred an easy target to batter. The thought of sinking her fingernails into his face almost made her smile.
“Well, if it ain’t a mouse trying to roar like a lion.” He snatched Mollie to his chest with one arm and shoved Naomi away with the other. Sniffing, he surveyed her, top to bottom and back again. Naomi knew she didn’t intimidate the heavy, well-muscled Hawthorn, but she was still dangerous, if he had enough sense to see it. “Well,” he said again, a lecherous grin spreading across his pockmarked face. “Why don’t you make me? Better yet …” As if offering to assist a lady into a carriage, he shifted Mollie off to his side and extended a dirty, scarred hand to Naomi. “Why don’t we all three go back to my tent for a little entertainment.”
Smiling sweetly, Naomi softened her gaze and cocked her head ever so slightly. Unfortunately, she had underestimated the level of debauchery that still seethed on this side of town and now she and Mollie were in a fix. Near as she could tell, there was only one way to get out of it.
Hawthorn’s lewd grin spread as he fell for Naomi’s beguiling invitation. Holding her smile, she hiked her skirt and delivered a ferocious kick to the man’s groin. As he doubled over with a groan, Naomi yelled, “Run, Mollie! Run!” Mollie easily wrenched loose from him, but as she and Naomi turned to dash for their freedom, Naomi’s head snapped back and pain shot down her neck. “Run, Mollie!” she screamed again as the man used her braid like a leash to snatch her back. “Get Charles!”
~~~
Thirty-Six
Before Naomi or Mollie could run or fight, gunfire exploded over their heads like a thunder clap. Hawthorn yanked Naomi against his broad chest and wrapped his arm around her as he spun toward the sound. Naomi nearly fainted with relief. Charles leaped down the steps of the Broken Spoke and strode toward them, eyes blazing, gun pointed precisely at the center of Tom Hawthorn’s head.
The emptiness in Charles’ eyes, the seething fury of it, shocked Naomi and her anger with Hawthorn evaporated. He’s going to kill this man. “Charles, don’t!” She felt Hawthorn stiffen.
Oh, God, she prayed, please don’t let him take this man’s life. He’s not that Charles McIntyre anymore. He’ll regret it.
Charles marched within about six feet of her and Hawthorn, the gun still leveled at the man’s forehead. “Hawthorn, you are holding the woman I am about to marry.” He sounded incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe Hawthorn’s audacity.
The man shifted his grip and brought his arm around Naomi’s neck. “Good. You won’t risk shooting her.”
“Oh, there’s no risk of that.”
“Charles, just wound him.” Naomi spoke quickly, but barely above a whisper. This was a critical moment for all of them.
Hawthorn tightened his grip slightly around her neck and laughed. “Yes, Charles, just wound me.”
The blood flowing to Naomi’s brain slowed and she clawed at the arm around her throat. The fire that had energized her kick merged with a confusion that seeped through her consciousness like cold molasses. She blinked, but her thoughts were slowing, growing fuzzy.
“I told you when you got out of jail to leave Defiance.” Charles cocked the pistol. “And I know you did. But you were actually foolish enough to come back.” Charles shook his head. “And now you’ve laid hands upon my fiancée.” His voice, low and calm, belonged to an angel of death. Even in this strange fog, the tone chilled Naomi. “You know I cannot let such an affront pass.”
Hawthorn’s arm constricted a bit tighter and a gray wave loomed before her. Her vision dimming, she could barely make out men coming to the scene, weaving through lines of laundry, popping out from tents, settling in around the edges of the intersection. A few grinned, several tipped their hats back in anticipation.
She felt Hawthorn suck in a breath and tighten his arm even more. Her thoughts grew dark, like a dying flame, and she closed her eyes. Light sliced into her brain as he shoved her toward Charles. Disoriented, she staggered to him and he wrapped her in a welcoming arm, pulling her to his side.
Hawthorn raised his hands. “There’s your woman. Holster that hog leg and we’ll have a fair fight.”
“What makes you think you deserve a fair fight?” Charles sounded appalled by the idea.
Naomi shook her head, clearing the mist. Panic and anger both hit her as she realized what had just happened. She looked back at Hawthorn and let the anger win. For an instant she imagined snatching Cha
rles’ gun from his hand and shooting the man herself, but her reason rushed back. This needed to end so they could all walk away. “Charles, you don’t have to do this.”
“I absolutely have to do this.” He glanced down at her, but she didn’t see any tenderness in his face. Something dark and forsaken, something without a conscience boiled in Charles, radiated from him in waves. The set of his jaw, the slight sneer in his lip. Here was the man who had settled Defiance. The man they were all afraid of. She didn’t know this Charles and didn’t want to. The gun in his hand didn’t move, didn’t even pulsate with his heartbeat. He stared over her head at Tom. “He’s crossed too many lines now.”
“Marshal Beckwith can handle the likes of him. This isn’t your job.” She laid a hand on his chest. “If you do this, I think you’ll regret it.”
“He’s the man who beat Mollie.” His stare never left Hawthorn, but she thought she detected the slightest waver in his conviction. “Because of me, my law, my justice, he served thirty days and then walked away.”
“There’s real law here now. Mollie and I can press charges.”
“And how long do you think that would keep him in jail?”
“Come on, McIntyre,” Hawthorn goaded, raising his fists. “Set the lady aside and let’s dance.”
Naomi ignored the man. “You can’t kill him. You can’t justify that before God. Think for a moment and you’ll see that.”
“I’ll call it self-defense.”
“He’s unarmed.” Naomi stole a glance at the gun in his hand, as still as if it was frozen in time. “You can’t just shoot him.”
“Naomi, if I don’t deal with this man in the right way,” he dropped his voice to a whisper, “every miner in this town will think respectable means soft. That could mean you’re not safe, or your sisters, or Little Billy.”
Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) Page 23