Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2)

by Blanton, Heather

  Nodding and mumbling their thanks, the two boys shuffled out the door. McIntyre stepped back in front of his mirror, determined to tie the cravat to perfection. “Now, what was that all about, Ian? Why are you here and not back at the hotel with an apron tied around your waist?”

  “The restaurant’s a wee bit slow tonight.” He settled into an armchair near the window and gazed out over the mostly empty street, his fingers dancing atop the wolf’s head on his cane. “I’m taking a much needed break, as is Rebecca. The new lass—Amanda is it?—is cooking.”

  McIntyre followed Ian’s gaze out the window. Prior to the Iron Horse closing down, the avenue had flowed with scores of men, on foot and on horse, going back and forth, spending their evenings in debauchery. From his saloon to the ones in Tent Town they’d traveled, all night long. Drinking. Gambling. Carousing. How had he ever been proud of his association with that? At least now the activities were restricted to Tent Town.

  “Do ye remember Defiance on a Wednesday night a year ago?” Ian asked.

  “A particular Wednesday night?”

  “Nay, just the crowd and the traffic and the caliber of men?”

  McIntyre fluffed his tie, finally pleased. “I’m not sorry things have changed. Surely you’re not.” He snatched his hat off the corner of his mirror and faced his friend. “So why did you bring those boys here? They could have gone to the bathhouse without any trouble.”

  “Perhaps ’tis true, but ye’ve got this building right down the walk from the hotel. Besides, I hadn’t been by in a while.”

  This is where McIntyre would normally pour them each a snifter of brandy or a shot of good whiskey. He didn’t need it or want it now, though. He just wanted to get to Naomi and tell her the preacher was coming. “Well, you almost missed me. I heard back from Reverend Potter. He’ll be on Friday’s stage. He’s asked that we have the wedding Saturday.” The slightest hint of his self-doubts laced the last sentence.

  “Aye, that is good news.” Ian inclined his head. “But …?”

  “I still struggle with …” He shook off the lost sentence and marched to the window. “It seems I’m trying to change everything about my life, Ian, and sometimes I wonder if I’ve bit off more than I can chew. Reaching too high, as it were.” He hated that thought. He’d never doubted himself like this. But he’d also never seen his sinfulness with such lucidity. “Am I right for her? Will I be good to her? What if I wake up one morning and I don’t want to read the Bible?”

  Ian pursed his lips and stared down at the Oriental rug on McIntyre’s floor. “Scripture calls it a race, lad. Not a casual stroll. Furthermore, we are admonished to fight the good fight.” He looked up then. “If following Jesus was easy, we would not be told to put on the full armor of God. I’ve no advice for ye, other than persevere. God has brought ye this far. He’ll finish what He’s started.”

  Good advice. Sound advice. And it did bring McIntyre a measure of peace.

  A little stiffly, Ian rose to his feet. McIntyre saw the troubled contemplation his friend still wore and kicked himself for not being more attentive. “What is it? Something else?”

  Ian scratched the back of his head, causing a few strands of his silver hair to point in various directions. “Rebecca. I’d like to ask the woman to marry me, but now I’m thinking I should wait a bit.”

  “What for?”

  “Till ye and Naomi are married. I’m not sure how a woman would feel about having such an event shared, so to speak.”

  McIntyre sucked on his cheek. He was not willing in any way, shape, or form to try guessing how Naomi might feel about this. In his very limited experience with brides, McIntyre had noticed they tended to get a bit irrational about the smallest things.

  He stuck his finger through the bullet hole in his hat and decided Naomi wasn’t the irrational kind. She was quite pragmatic. “Ian, we’re not guaranteed our next breath. I’m through waiting.”

  Ian nodded slowly as if mulling over the advice, then he took his friend’s hand. “I didnae tell ye congratulations. I hope ye’ll be very happy.”

  “I’ve no doubt it will be interesting.”

  “Aye, Rebecca and I, should she accept my proposal, will be like an old, comfortable pair of shoes together. Ye and Naomi, I suspect, will live a life of thunder and lightning.”

  McIntyre was fascinated by Ian’s prediction. Slipping his hat on his head, he asked, “Which is better, do you think?”

  “While Rebecca and I will live longer,” he winked, “Ye and Naomi will live more passionately.” Grinning, he strode to the door. “I’ll see ye back at the hotel.”

  Smiling over Ian’s reference to thunder and lightning, McIntyre bit down on his cheroot and pulled two new shirts from his dresser. Momentarily, he heard a soft knock on the door. “Come in.”

  Billy popped his head in, hair wet and slicked back. “You wanted to see me?”

  McIntyre nodded. “Yes, I wanted to give you and Emilio new shirts. I would prefer that you two not show up at my wedding poorly attired and unwashed.” He handed him the items.

  Billy read the labels and raised his eyebrows. “These are very nice shirts. Thank you.”

  McIntyre waved the comment away with the cheroot. “My pleasure. Regarding the other matter,” he strode to his desk and dropped the smoke into the ash tray. “I thought it the decent thing to let you know—last year I hired Beckwith to track you down.” He turned to Billy and leaned on the desk. “I don’t normally spy on folks, but I suppose you could say I had a moment of chivalrous weakness.”

  Billy ran his hand through his hair and brought it to rest on his neck. “I don’t understand. Once you found me, what did you do with that information?”

  McIntyre shrugged and reached for the cheroot again. “It made its way back to Hannah. I understand she chose not to contact you. How did you find her, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  Billy frowned as if he was digesting this information. Apparently he had not been aware that Hannah could have reached out to him, if she had been so inclined. The girl had pride.

  “I–I found a Pinkerton report in my father’s desk. I had already made up my mind to find Hannah. The report made it easier.”

  Silence fell between them as McIntyre pondered what kind of man Billy Page might turn out to be. He’d come a long way to see Hannah, although Naomi wasn’t yet sold on his reasons. McIntyre, on the other hand, had no doubt. “Naomi told me a little about your father. Was the price high to come after Hannah?”

  “It cost me everything my father thinks matters in life.”

  “And what do you think?’

  “Everything that matters to me is right here in Defiance.”

  ~~~

  One-Who-Cries did not like to wait. And he did not like being this close to Defiance knowing he couldn’t kill McIntyre … yet. First, he needed guns. To get guns, he needed the girl with yellow hair.

  His horse stamped her feet, the sound swallowed quickly by the thick forest of aspens. Where was Black Elk? If he found out the worthless Indian was lying drunk in a saloon somewhere …

  He clenched his jaw, angry that the brave was late … or not coming at all. Perhaps this was part of the Great Spirit’s plan, to teach One-Who-Cries patience. How long had he prayed for a vision telling him when he could finally skin McIntyre alive? Eight winters? He avenged the murder of his mother and little brother every day. But still he waited to kill the white man who had fouled Hopping Bird and left her with a half-breed child.

  Memories, dark and bitter, rained down on him like falling leaves, pulling him back to a blazing council fire.

  “Hopping Bird is my daughter and I will do with her as I see fit.” Ouray crossed his arms over his chest, his face hard and unrelenting in the flickering light.

  One-Who-Cries clenched his hands into tight fists. He felt the eyes of the council on him, urging restraint. But a boy of seventeen winters would not be held back by foolish old men afraid of the Blue Coats.

 
; He stepped back so he could see Ouray and the council members seated behind him. Their dead stares enraged him, made him feel small. Seething, he pounded a fist into his chest. “She was promised to me. Me!” His eyes darted to McIntyre, standing quietly in the shadows. “I will kill that white man before he can touch her.”

  McIntyre took a step forward. Chief Ouray raised his hand, signaling him to stay put. “You disgrace yourself before the council, One-Who-Cries. Speaking against your chief is not the Ute way.”

  “First Two Moons and then Fat Buffalo!” Spittle flew from One-Who-Cries’ mouth. He raised a fist at his chief, wishing he could pound the old man’s skull into pulp. The fibers in his body grew as tight as drying rawhide and he shook with his anger. “Their bones are still smoldering and you would give her to this—”

  “Leave, One-Who-Cries,” Ouray said softly. “Leave your tribe freely and in peace. If you stay, there will be no peace between us.” The old man’s solemn warning haunted him, echoing in his heart.

  One-Who-Cries had left … and there had been no peace on that path either. Tired, often covered in white man’s blood, the emptiness in his heart still burned, emptiness only Hopping Bird could fill.

  Before two summers had passed, his tribe was moved to White Mountain Reservation.

  He exhaled quietly and recalled his first scouting trip there to find her. Riding among the people, he looked into their soulless eyes and shivered. They were skeletons wrapped in filthy blankets, shuffling about as if they were lost in the spirit world. He sniffed and smelled dung and wood fires, but not the scent of roasting meat. He heard no laughter from the children. The teepees, ragged and hastily built, moved with the breeze.

  Once such a proud people, these Utes had been broken. Fuming, he wondered how a chief could condemn his people to this.

  Hugging a rolled up blanket, Hopping Bird shuffled up to his horse. One-Who-Cries wanted to weep and rage when he saw her. She was a fragile shell of the girl he had left. She smiled at him as he dismounted, but the greeting was as thin as a morning mist. Her dress of blue checkered cloth hung from her thin body. Her dark hair that once glimmered like a black snake in spring, dangled in dingy braids down her shoulders. She was dying in this place and One-Who-Cries could not stand it.

  “I have come for you, Hopping Bird. I will kill McIntyre for you, if need be. But I will not leave without you.”

  She loosened her grip on the blanket in her arms and shook her head. “He is not here. He left me before the Utes were moved to the reservation.”

  One-Who-Cries was only a little relieved. He had wanted the chance to see McIntyre without Ouray watching like a mother bear. “Then come with me now.”

  He saw a light of hope flicker in her eyes, but she looked away quickly. “Two Spears?” She spoke over her shoulder. When no one replied, she said it again. “Two Spears, come here.”

  A small child slowly peeked out from behind a barrel. He was chubby, covered in dirt, and nibbling on a piece of fry bread. One-Who-Cries’ little brother Fat Buffalo had lived with a piece clutched in his hands. The memory stung.

  This child toddled up behind his mother and hid in the folds of her skirt. Hopping Bird reached around and touched him on the shoulder. “He is my son. I cannot leave him. I cannot leave my people.”

  The frightened, curious eyes risked a broader peek out from behind his mother. One-Who-Cries took a small step back. For all the hate in his heart, One-Who-Cries loved Hopping Bird and she loved this child. Why else would she starve herself so that he would grow fat and live?

  “Where is his father?”

  “Once the treaty was signed, he traded my father many horses and cattle … for land. And he said he did not want a wife. He said he would work to keep the peace between us and the Blue Coats. And he promised supplies.”

  Supplies? One-Who-Cries looked around again and saw only hunger and death. He almost choked on his hate. It burned in his blood turning his spirit to ashes. His fingers itched to slice McIntyre open like an elk and watch his intestines spill out on the ground.

  One-Who-Cries pulled himself free of this painful memory and scrounged for one more pleasant. Though Hopping Bird had refused to leave the reservation, she had become his wife. He went often to see her and bring her food, blankets, what supplies he could sneak to her and Two Spears. The boy, ten winters now, was good with a sling. He would be a great warrior one day. Hopping Bird had visions and she had seen this.

  One-Who-Cries exhaled, frustrated with the pace of things. Most of Hopping Bird’s visions had been very clear–that One-Who-Cries would kill many white men, take their women, burn their homes. Yet she had not seen when to attack Defiance or Charles McIntyre. One-Who-Cries had come so close once he could have reached out and struck the white man down with his fist. But Yankee soldiers had saved him.

  Many winters had passed since that battle. One day, the waiting would be over. One-Who-Cries would meet McIntyre again and the murders of Two Moons and Fat Buffalo, the slow death of the Ute people, the broken spirit in Hopping Bird, it would all be avenged.

  He peered into the shadows and listened to the woods around him. The horse swished her tail back and forth, shifted her hooves. Birds whistled and called in peace.

  Black Elk was not coming.

  One-Who-Cries raised his chin. He would have to get the woman himself. And perhaps, this would be his chance to kill Charles McIntyre.

  ~~~

  Thirty-One

  “All right, Amanda, that’s the last table.” Hannah deposited a heap of dishes on the counter next to the sink and turned to the new girl. Amanda scrubbed a cast iron pan with a vengeance, her concentration practically scalding the grime off it. Hannah cocked her head to one side and pondered the girl. She’d cooked like this, too, as if a burnt steak or under-cooked potatoes might result in the collision of heaven and earth. Hannah had never seen anyone concentrate so hard, as if she was trying to avoid thinking about something else altogether.

  Maybe, she thought, a few encouraging words would make them both feel better. “You did a really fine job tonight. Thank you for jumping in to help like you did.”

  “It was nothing.” Amanda wiped a sleeve across her forehead to fight back a few stray wiry curls and changed scrubbing hands. “I have to stay busy.”

  “Well, how was your first night, Amanda?”

  She and Hannah turned as Naomi floated through the café doors. Floated was the right word too, Hannah thought. Her sister had stars in her eyes, a glow about her, and moved like she had clouds beneath her feet. Amanda didn’t seem to notice.

  “Oh, fine,” the new girl said, turning back to her work. She turned the pot upside down and placed it in the dish rack to dry. “This wasn’t a hard evening at all.”

  “Well, it’s going to get easier. I have some news.” Naomi laced her fingers together in front of her and shrugged her shoulders as if she was nervous. “The preacher is coming on the Friday stage and Charles would like us all to concentrate on the wedding. He’s buying us out for the next three days. Maybe even a day or two more.”

  Hannah’s mouth fell open. They’d worked so hard, from the moment they’d set foot in Defiance last July. Now, finally, a holiday of sorts. She grabbed Naomi’s hands and laughed. “Oh, praise the Lord. A break!” Hannah hugged her sister, squeezing the breath out of her. “We’ll have time to make all kinds of decorations for the wedding!” Naomi hugged her back, stiff as a board at first, but shortly Hannah felt her relax.

  “You’re all right with this then? You think I’m doing the right thing?”

  Hannah stepped back to arm’s length, but kept a hold on Naomi’s shoulders. “I already said so. He loves you and you love him. And John would want you to be happy. What else do you need?”

  “I need to tell Rebecca.” She started to turn, stopped, and smiled at Hannah. “I would never have seen any of this coming. Not in a million years.”

  “Doesn’t it simply amaze you the things God’s love can accomplis
h? I mean, he’s really a changed man. Don’t you think?”

  For an instant, a shadow clouded Naomi’s face, but she lifted her chin and it fled. “Yes. Yes, I believe he is a changed man. And speaking of changed men, at least concerning clothes, Emilio and Billy are out front.”

  Unbidden, something stirred in Hannah. It felt a little bittersweet. She wanted to see Billy. She wanted to see Emilio. And, yet, now she found herself a little afraid of both of them. With regards to Billy, she could understand it. But Emilio?

  Naomi pulled her hand away from Hannah and hurried toward the café doors. “Let me tell Rebecca we’re closed.” Over her shoulder, “Thank you again, Amanda.”

  Almost the moment she was gone, Billy and Emilio pushed through the doors. Their transformation was, indeed, startling. In spite of swollen noses, puffy lips and gouged cheeks, their faces were freshly washed and shaven. She knew that must have been quite a delicate procedure. Plus, they both wore clean clothes, including crisp white cotton shirts with pleated bibs—tailored shirts, expensive shirts. They were sure putting on the dog.

  She was struck for the first time by the differences in their coloring, what wasn’t black-and-blue. Billy’s short, dirty blonde hair was still wet and combed smartly to the side. Emilio’s jet black hair was also still wet and he’d run a comb through it. Straight and tucked behind his ears, it curled up a good inch past his collar. She realized their contradictory appearances hinted at broader differences as well. Billy, clean-cut, educated and civilized. Emilio, as long-haired as an Indian, but gentle and wise beyond his years.

  Hannah bit her lip, a little unnerved by the handsome gentlemen before her. She studied them carefully while trying to ignore Billy’s unwavering stare. Intent and direct, he almost seemed to be trying to tell her something. Uncomfortable with the determined gaze, she shifted her focus to Emilio.