“She always did have a sweet tooth,” Billy interjected, trying to keep the two from talking directly to each other.
Hannah raised a skeptical brow at Emilio’s comment, ignoring Billy’s. “Is it the best because it’s the only birthday cake you’ve ever had?”
Emilio laughed and Billy was left sitting out in the cold. Agitated, he tapped his foot. An undercurrent of emotions definitely swirled here, but he was relatively confident the friendship between the two hadn’t gone any further yet. So what to do? If Emilio would just do the gentlemanly thing and leave.
Popping the last bite of venison into his mouth, Billy reached over with his unused fork and carved out a piece of this bewitching birthday cake. “How old are you today, Emilio?”
“Eighteen, I think.”
Billy raised his eyebrows. “You think? Don’t you know?”
“Not for certain. I—”
“Emilio is an orphan,” Hannah offered too quickly. “He’s moved around quite a bit.” She locked her eyes on Billy. “But that’s the way it is with a lot of people here in the West. Who you were in one place isn’t who you have to be in the next.”
Billy didn’t really understand her point. Was she saying she’d reinvented herself? Or that he could? Maybe both.
Delighting Billy, Emilio rose and stepped behind his chair. “I have logging to do tomorrow. I should get to bed.” He paused over Billy as if he wanted to ask a question but thought better of it. He nodded instead and turned his attention to Hannah. “Thank you for the party. Maybe you can finish teaching me this Virginia Reel another time.”
Billy almost slammed his fork down. He knew a jab when one hit him. Hannah bid her friend good night and watched him drift through the batwings. As his footsteps faded, she settled back in her seat. Billy felt her stare, but decided to savor the cake for a moment. When the silence dragged on, he raised his head. She sat with her arms folded tightly across her chest, legs crossed, her foot bouncing, eyes boring into him. This didn’t bode well.
“Custodian,” she repeated, clearly unhappy with his choice of the word. “You know who you sounded like when you said that? Your father.”
“I didn’t really mean anything by it. I was just trying to …” To what? Make him look bad in front of Hannah. That had certainly blown back on him. “What is he to you exactly?”
“A good friend … and a good man.”
Jab two. Billy found himself wishing for the bell.
~~~
Ten
One-Who-Cries shifted on his horse’s back and stared through the pines at a group of settlers. A young girl, dark hair braided around the top of her head, stood beside the creek. Unaware of the Indians watching her, she tossed a stick for a yellow mongrel into the rushing water. The dog leaped excitedly into the foam like a bear cub hunting a fish.
A rock’s throw beyond her, a white woman with loose hair the color of the sun stirred a steaming pot. One-Who-Cries caught a whiff of rabbit stew and his belly grumbled. Near her, an old couple rested against the wagon’s rear wheel, empty tin plates in their hands. The old woman had her hair done up in the same strange braid as the young girl, like a vine around her head. The old man’s rifle leaned on the wagon bed beside him.
One-Who-Cries thought there should be one more among them. The woman with yellow hair would have a husband. He scanned the camp, the woods behind the wagon, and the boulders opposite them.
Nothing.
Troubled, he caressed the rifle lying across his lap. Perhaps her man was dead. Perhaps she was alone, with only an old man for protection.
Like Two Moons had been.
The memory of his mother’s mutilated body smoldered in his heart. Recalling her death made the killing easy.
Beside him, Black Elk tightened his legs around his horse and silently slid an arrow into his bow. Four other braves sat astride their horses, side by side with him and One-Who-Cries, watching and waiting.
The sun inched lower and lower behind them, lengthening their shadows as they waited. Restless, the mare beneath One-Who-Cries took a cautious step forward. He agreed. The time had come. With a whoop and a scream, he raised his rifle and kicked his horse. The Indians exploded from the woods like rampaging grizzlies. The young girl saw them first and screamed. The dog turned and barked a warning. Black Elk pulled and released his arrow in one silent, fluid move. The animal disappeared beneath the white foam without even so much as a yelp.
One-Who-Cries thundered past the girl, shot the old man as he reached for his rifle, and swung down from the saddle. Like an angry god come down to earth, he struck the old woman with the butt of his rifle before she could rise to her feet. He fed on the sound of shattering bone. She slumped on her husband, dead. The woman with yellow hair raised her spoon over her head and held it like a knife. Her terror-filled gaze leaped back and forth between the brave storming toward her and the one headed for the girl. She chose her target and hurled the spoon at One-Who-Cries’ chest. “Get away from us!”
One-Who-Cries did not slow his charge as Black Elk raced over to the young girl at the creek and snatched her up into his saddle. She squealed in terror and commenced writhing like an angry snake. “Eva, help me!”
Eva tried to dodge One-Who-Cries and run toward Black Elk. “Let her go!” She raised her fist at him. “Let my sister go, you savage!” But One-Who-Cries caught her and spun her around. The fury in her eyes turned to the fear of a rabbit staring into the fangs of a mountain lion.
Behind him, the young girl screamed again, the shrill sound grating on his nerves. A sharp, resounding smack ended the screech. Black Elk. Smiling, One-Who-Cries dug his fingers into Eva’s arms and pulled her closer. “You call us savages. You have no idea …”
Or perhaps she did. Eva jerked and pulled wildly and tried to wriggle free from his grasp. Impatient with her squirming, One-Who-Cries cuffed the woman across the face, the crisp sound rising over the water. “Be still and we will not hurt you.”
Eva seemed not to hear or feel the pain. Acting like a wild animal with the scent of fire in its nostrils, she kicked and clawed and growled desperately. She thought to rake her nails down One-Who-Cries’ face, but he grabbed her wrists. Twisting and writhing, she brought her knee up hard. A blinding pain blossomed like a fire in One-Who-Cries’ loins. Flinching, he loosened his grip just enough to give Eva a brief opening. She wrenched free and sprinted away from him.
Beside them, the other braves had leaped into the wagon and were flinging blankets, trunks, bags of flour, and any loose items, out the back. They paused in their raiding to laugh at the blow the white woman had struck One-Who-Cries. Only Black Elk did not laugh.
One-Who-Cries straightened up. Black fury crashed over him like a rushing waterfall. It roared in his ears, sucked the air from his lungs. With that move, the woman had sung her death song, no matter how many rifles she was worth.
She sprinted toward a large boulder, her drab brown skirt billowing around her. “Jed! Jed! Help us!” One-Who-Cries was on her, bellowing with rage. He tackled the woman and the two of them tumbled to the ground and rolled behind a boulder. He raised a fist and brought it down with every ounce of hate his body held coiled in his lean muscles. Her screams changed, from anger and fear to the panicked screeching of a dying bird in an eagle’s claws. He thought his head would come apart. Her shrieking felt like knives stabbing his brain and made his forehead throb. Scrambling to stop the noise, he grasped a rock and swung it hard into the side of her head again and again. Her skull shattered. Blood and brains splattered across the orange pine needles beneath them.
Winded, the burn of his hate fading, One-Who-Cries climbed to his feet and staggered out from behind the rock. He pushed long tendrils of black hair and feathers out of his face and met Black Elk’s unexpected glare. The brave had draped the younger girl over his saddle like a dead deer. His stare said One-Who-Cries should have done the same thing with the yellow-haired girl.
But One-Who-Cries would not be scolded li
ke a child and he raised his chin. Black Elk understood this and decided not to fight. Instead, he slid out of the saddle, snatched a tin plate from the dead white man and heaped stew onto it. One-Who-Cries could not eat, not while the anger still raged within him.
The braves ransacking the wagon returned to their task with excited whoops and yelps. One of them dumped a jar of peaches down his throat then tossed the empty glass aside. He grabbed a burning stick from the fire and threw it inside the wagon. The canvas caught quickly and smoke billowed toward the circle of blue sky above them. Two other braves, still digging through a box of dried goods, shouted curses at him and dragged their treasure out of range of the heat.
One-Who-Cries let the smoke lift his anger. He watched the ashes float away and wished he could be that free. Thinking more clearly, he could see what the girl’s resistance had cost. She had been worth three rifles because she had yellow hair. She was worth nothing dead. If only she hadn’t fought. He shook his head, refusing to think about the loss.
As Black Elk wolfed downed the serving of stew, movement in the bushes brought One-Who-Cries’ mind back down to the earth. The missing white man staggered into the open. Black Elk dropped his plate and pulled his bow from his shoulder. The white man raised his Colt, but with an arm that shook like an old woman’s. Black Elk swiftly loaded the arrow and drew back on the string. Before he could release it, One-Who-Cries lobbed the bloodied rock in his hand at the settler’s arm. The gun flew loose from his fingers. Swaying, the man turned his empty palm up as if wondering how his weapon had disappeared.
Instinctively, One-Who-Cries took a step back. Something was wrong. The man’s skin was almost yellow, a dull light filled his eyes, and his face sagged strangely. His confused gaze drifted over to the water and he took a few unsteady steps toward the creek.
Sickness.
Black Elk fired multiple arrows, as did two other braves. The white man managed two more steps then fell into the water, his body pinned like a porcupine.
One-Who-Cries walked up beside Black Elk, folded his arms across his chest and studied the dead white man. When he didn’t speak, Black Elk did. “He was sick.” He jerked his chin toward the girl draped over his saddle. “She might be, too. We should kill her and move on.”
One-Who-Cries dropped his hands on his hips and stared down at his moccasins. “We promised Sanchez two women,” he said more to himself than Black Elk. The white woman should not have fought. And now we are too near the meeting place to turn back. He wanted to bash her head in again.
There was one other place they could get women quickly. One-Who-Cries pondered Black Elk, the big brave towering over him like a hulking shadow, and an idea came to him. Black Elk had been to Defiance. And now he would go back.
~~~
Eleven
Wrapped in an old, tattered quilt, Naomi sat down on a log by the river, her favorite place to pray. The radiance from a brilliant full moon washed the last hour before sunrise in shades of silver and gray. Above the pewter mountains, diamonds shimmered and blinked in the sky. As always, this view filled up her soul. If she couldn’t sleep, at least she could marvel at God’s handiwork.
How many times had she retreated to this spot over the last year? Initially she had come to fuss and fume. The ache of John’s absence and her anger over God’s betrayal had consumed her. Slowly, though, her loving Father had healed her and she had come to accept Defiance as a town in need of witnesses. Even more slowly, she had accepted her feelings for Charles.
“Why is Matthew here now, Lord?” she wondered aloud. “He makes my life with John so fresh and the grief so raw.” She swallowed, surprised by the tightness in her throat. “I thought I’d laid him to rest.”
Overwhelmed with emotions she couldn’t make heads or tails of, she sagged on the log and watched the moon beams dance on the rippling water. She shouldn’t be confused. John was dead. Matthew was John’s twin on the surface only. Charles had turned out to be a good man who loved her enough to take a bullet for her and her family. Yet, she was struggling—
“Couldn’t sleep? May I be so bold as to assume that’s because you were thinking of me?”
His tease, wrapped in a silky, Southern drawl released a torrent of butterflies in her. He stood near the water’s edge with his frockcoat pulled back on one side, his hand resting on the holstered .44. The other hand hung at his side and his fingers fidgeted, playing piano on his leg. He started toward her, hesitated, then ambled over and sat down. Lacing his fingers, he rested his elbows on his knees and stared out over the glimmering water. Naomi stared at him, taken aback by the uncertainty she sensed in him.
“Were you? Thinking about me?”
“Yes.” She bit her lip, feeling guilty, even unfaithful somehow, that she hadn’t been thinking about him only. Several seconds passed and he continued to stare at the water. Hugging herself against the chill, she waited, giving him time to find his words.
“It must be unimaginably difficult to see the ghost, so to speak, of John.” He tapped his fingertips against one another. “And confusing.”
“The grief feels fresh all over again.” A muscle ticked in his cheek, as if he’d guessed that already and the thought wasn’t welcome. She knew she needed to say something reassuring, for both their sakes. “Time. I just need time to deal with it.”
“Is it just me, or is he the spitting image of John?”
“They are identical … were identical, in looks. That’s where the similarities end. Matthew was quite a handful. He was always in trouble and John was forever getting him out of it.”
Charles sighed, a sad sound that surprised her. She’d never seen him this unsure. He turned abruptly and straddled the log, moving closer to her. Pushing his hat back, he searched Naomi’s face, his own gaze determined in the steely light of dawn. “I don’t know what to think. I don’t know if I should be worried or not. I told myself I wasn’t, yet here I am at five o’clock in the morning hoping you’d be out here.”
“You’re worried about us?”
His taciturn expression hid his answer.
Drowning in confusion, she turned her head. “I won’t lie. It’s hard. He even almost smells like him.” Stupid! She flinched at her insensitive words. He had come here to find assurance. She faced him and tried to feign a confidence she didn’t actually possess. “I’m sure, after the shock wears off, I’ll be fine.” Charles pursed his lips as he mulled that over. Slowly, he reached out and touched her cheek. Naomi closed her eyes and tilted her face into his palm. “I’m sorry, Charles, I don’t know why I’m being so …”
“Female.” He said it as if he was resigned to the curse and dropped her hand.
Her eyes flew open and her hackles rose. “Well, pardon me for being a bit stunned by Matthew’s arrival. You said it yourself. He’s the spitting image of John. I think I’m entitled to be a little muddled. What I’m not is some weak-willed, water-kneed child around him just because of the resemblance. I’ll have you know—”
Charles captured her cheeks with both his hands and kissed her with a vengeance. Furious, she pushed against him, but her resistance burned away as fast as summer grass hit by lightning. Eagerly, she slid into his arms and lost herself to the hunger of his lips and the tickle of his beard. A heady desire swept over her, but a breathless peace accompanied it, because she was meant for his embrace. He tightened his hold and kissed her ravenously, till she felt lightheaded. She floated on dreams of him, wishing she never had to wake up, never had to let him go.
And just as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, he released her, rose to his feet and took a step back. She would have been embarrassed at her reaction to him, except for the satisfied smirk on his lips. “If the matter of your affection takes a different direction, princess, I would appreciate being apprised of the change.”
Infuriated by his arrogance, she also found it comforting. Trying to slow her galloping heart and hold a stern expression, she stood as well, albeit on wobbly legs. “Garnered quite
a bit of information out of one kiss, did you, Mr. McIntyre?”
Nonchalantly, he pulled a cheroot out of his breast pocket and raised it to his lips, where the smirk still resided. “Why, yes, I believe I did, Mrs. Miller.” He reached inside his coat for a match and lit it with a flick of his thumbnail. Puffing on the cheroot, he explained, “You are a woman of few words, Naomi. Your actions have always betrayed your heart. If you ever kiss another man like that, I hope I’m lying dead somewhere.”
She smiled at the way he could take the bluntest statements and make them sound like romantic poetry. She stepped up to him and laced her fingers through his. “I’m not sleepy.” Indeed, left to think about that kiss she might not sleep for days. She wondered if he knew how his touch melted her. “Would you mind escorting me on a walk?”
Perhaps remembering the Southern gentleman he was raised to be, he immediately offered her his arm. A mischievous smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “A walk? Yes, I suppose that will have to do for now.”
Minutes later, they strolled down the quiet main street of Defiance. In the east, behind the jagged mountains, the sky had started its march past blue dawn to the reds and yellows of sunrise. Naomi clung to Charles’ arm. Still reeling from the heat of that kiss, holding him dampened her memories of John. She wanted to remember him, of course, but not feel as if she could reach out and touch his cheek or hold his hand. That was too disorienting.
Oh, why did Matthew have to come to Defiance now?
“How did your family reunion go, by the way?”
“Fine, I suppose.” She frowned, wondering why she felt the need to lie. “No. Not fine at all. He thought he was coming to rescue us, to take us back with him to California. He said he has a house for us with a maid.” She hugged his arm tighter, concentrating on the feel of taut muscle beneath her fingers. “I feel so badly. I wrote him a second letter. I told him we were fine. He said he never got it.”
Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) Page 8
