Naomi deflated over the argument. Maybe she didn’t understand the way things worked out West, even after all this time. Praying she would see Christ reflected in Charles’ eyes instead of that fearsome darkness, she nodded. “Fine,” she pulled away, “But do you have to kill him?”
~~~
Thirty-Seven
“I never said I was going to kill him.”
But the desire to kill Tom Hawthorn when he saw Naomi strangling in his arms had allowed McIntyre the purest sense of hate he’d tasted since watching One-Who-Cries skin his friends alive. He’d had a clean shot. He could have blown the man’s head off with the twitch of his trigger finger and no woman—Naomi, Mollie, any woman at all—would have had to worry about him ever again. Naomi’s pleading, though, had brought on an unexpected sense of uncertainty.
All right, God, if I shouldn’t kill him, how do I get him to stay out of Defiance? How do I keep the respect of this town and not come across as weak?
Amazingly, a Scripture rose up in his mind. My grace is sufficient for thee. For My strength is made perfect in weakness.
Mercifully God dropped an idea into his head. Thank You, Father. Holding Hawthorn’s gaze, McIntyre slid his gun into his holster, peeled off his gun belt and handed it to Naomi. “Pride goeth before a fall, Naomi. Maybe there is a way.”
Eyes wide and full of hope, she took the gun, reacting to its weight with a small gasp. McIntyre stripped off his coat. Satisfaction swelled Hawthorn’s chest and he quickly peeled out of his dirty miner’s coat and shirt and threw them at the feet of the crowd. Naomi held Charles’ coat and shirt draped over one arm, his gun hanging from her elbow.
Now bare-chested, he tried not to be distracted by the fleeting admiration on Naomi’s face. He had kept in shape by boxing with Brannagh behind the saloon. Well-developed shoulders, muscular arms and a tight stomach would allow him to defend against and absorb blows, but he hoped that even that wouldn’t be necessary. He had something else in mind.
He raised his fists, tossed a quick wink at Naomi and stepped toward Hawthorn. He hadn’t done this in a long time, but he had lived for this game in college and had perfected his skills to an impressive degree. “One round, five minutes, Hawthorn. Tap me with a fist and you can have a free pass in Defiance.”
The crowd reacted with a collective gasp. Hawthorn’s brow rose, pleased as he was with the offer, but almost instantly suspicion followed. “What’s the catch?”
McIntyre hunkered down another inch, brought his fists up a bit more. “No catch. I say you can’t touch me … I’ll give you five minutes to try.” McIntyre scanned the crowd and found Sean O’Connell, the man known for arranging and judging fights in Defiance.
He already had his pocket watch in his hand and nodded at McIntyre. “Gentlemen, five minutes start in three … two … one. Go.”
McIntyre shuffled his feet and moved toward Hawthorn. His opponent wasn’t a big man, but he was muscular and had a long reach. Not a cake walk, but McIntyre thought he could take him.
Hawthorn raised his fists and charged towards McIntyre. He threw a right jab, straight on, no finesse. McIntyre ducked it, came up and tagged Hawthorn hard in the temple, then moved behind him. Clearly surprised, Hawthorn spun and threw a wild haymaker. McIntyre leaned back like a snake avoiding a big cat’s swiping paw. Instantly, he reached back in and hit Hawthorn with a sharp left hook. Laughter rippled through the crowd. While Hawthorn was still blinking off the punch, McIntyre danced behind him, hitting him in the ribs with a fast right jab as he passed by. He heard the laughter again, saw a man elbow his buddy and point.
Hawthorn leaned into the no-doubt stinging ribs and stepped back, putting distance between him and McIntyre. The fleeting shadow of fear glimmered in the man’s grizzled face because he’d figured it out. McIntyre wasn’t going to beat the hound out of him.
He was going to utterly and completely humiliate him.
The two men circled each other, Hawthorn flat-footed as a camel. McIntyre bounced, shuffled, and held his expression still as death. Hawthorn watched him intently now, most likely looking for weaknesses. Growling, the man stepped in, and sliced at McIntyre with a fast right hook. McIntyre dodged it, countered with a vicious uppercut and again stepped out of range. He had heard Hawthorn’s teeth clatter and knew that last punch had rattled him good.
Surprising McIntyre, Hawthorn came at him with a flurry of wild punches. McIntyre blocked, parried, punched. With a haughty flourish, he actually slipped past the man and smacked him on the rear end. The crowd erupted in laughter and cheers.
Hawthorn spun, already slicked with sweat.
“Two minutes, Gentlemen,” O’Connell informed the fighters.
McIntyre knew he had to get a bit more grandiose if he was going to pull this off. Praying for wisdom and speed, he dropped his hands to his side and rested his feet. For a moment, Hawthorn was taken aback, dropping his guard slightly. Then McIntyre raised one hand and waved Hawthorn in, taunting him. The crowd collectively gasped over the audacious move.
Growling, the man obliged and dove at McIntyre with the intent of tackling him, but McIntyre side-stepped at the last possible moment and tripped Hawthorn. The man sprawled head-first into the dirt. The crowd started booing him and catcalling.
“Go home, laddy, we hear your Mum calling.”
“Come back when you’ve learned to fight.”
“Reckon yer getting yer schooling today, eh, Hawthorn?”
“No wonder you beat women. You can’t beat a man.”
Just a little more, Lord, and this man will never show himself in Defiance again.
Laughter and ridicule raining down on him, Hawthorn surveyed the crowd. McIntyre saw the warning in his eyes and readied himself for another volley of punches. Hawthorn came up out of the dirt swinging a bowie knife. He sliced and lashed at McIntyre’s ribs and came so close, McIntyre felt the breeze on his skin. Naomi covered her mouth but didn’t utter a sound, and the crowd turned ugly. Profanities flew at the man. McIntyre thought if he could survive this, he might well have accomplished his goal.
Hawthorn charged again. McIntyre grabbed the hand with the knife and jabbed twice, hard and lightning-fast, first into Hawthorn’s face, breaking his nose, and then at his stomach, knocking out the man’s wind. Hawthorn staggered and doubled over, blood streaming down his face. Finished dallying, McIntyre went on the offensive again, pummeling the man with powerful blows to his head and ribs. The crowd roared. Hawthorn collapsed on his knees, dazed. The knife fell through his fingers. Clapping, cheers, and jeers filled the air and a few onlookers spit at Hawthorn.
McIntyre aimed and delivered a vicious left hook to the man’s right cheek, causing a spray of blood. Hawthorn leaned to the left, swaying like a tree in the wind. He fell forward slowly and crashed in the dust.
O’Connell ran out and grabbed McIntyre’s right hand. Raising it above his head he yelled to the crowd, “We have our winner, gents!” More applause and cheers were accompanied by astonished whistles.
Exhausted, McIntyre sagged just as Naomi came up and wrapped her arms around him. She smiled, admiration glowing in her eyes. “You didn’t kill him.”
“All right, break it up, break it up!” Beckwith slashed through the crowd, parting it like a grizzly thrashing through the underbrush. The men scattered grudgingly, still laughing and shaking their heads in amazement. Beckwith assessed the scene. Lips pursed into a thin line, he reached down and claimed the Bowie knife. O’Connell dropped McIntyre’s hand like it had turned white hot and donned an expression of angelic innocence.
Beckwith speared McIntyre with a suspicious, sidelong glare. “Mollie said you were going to shoot someone.” He nudged Hawthorn with the toe of his boot. “I take it that plan changed?”
McIntyre nodded and draped an arm over Naomi’s shoulders, astonished that the limb felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Merely a small disagreement, Marshal.”
“No need to arrest anyone, I assume?”
/> “Not this time, but if you see Tom Hawthorn in town after this, arrest him for his own safety.”
The marshal pondered the warning for all of about a half-second. Finished here, he spun and headed back the way he’d come.
Naomi wrangled McIntyre’s shirt free from the items she was holding and offered it to him. Feeling as if his arms were encased in wet cement, he slowly shoved the nearly dead weights into the sleeves.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the violence this place breeds,” she said, trying to arrange the shirt on his sweat-slicked shoulders. “I was doing all right until the very end when you had to …” She trailed off.
“Finish it?”
“Yes, finish it. The sound of the beating …” She flinched and shook her head. “Between you, and Billy and Emilio, we need to open a hospital.”
He smiled, surprised that even his face felt heavy.
Naomi shifted to face him more directly. “So, what were you doing over here? Why were you coming out of the Broken Spoke?”
The hint of suspicion didn’t escape him, but he supposed he couldn’t blame her. Why would a man like him be on this side of Defiance? Then again … “I believe I could ask you the same thing.”
“I wasn’t coming out of the Broken Spoke.” He cut his eyes at her, not amused by the quip. She sighed. “I followed Mollie. She was trying to find Amanda. And you?”
“I sold the Broken—” he stopped buckling his gun belt and cocked his head. “Amanda?”
Naomi shook her head. “She wasn’t in her room this morning. Mollie told Hannah she was going to look for her. I was afraid she might come to Tent Town. I didn’t think she should be here alone.”
“And you were going to make all the difference to her safety?” He made no attempt to hide his exasperation. “All one hundred and ten pounds of you?”
Naomi stiffened into a portrait of indignation. He’d spit the comment out with a little too much acid, admittedly, but still, would the woman never learn? The realization that he could have lost her today nearly buckled his knees and he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t know what it did to me when I saw him choking you. It was all I could do not to pull that trigger. It might be a little helpful if you would stop acting like a cougar and realize you’re just a kitten.”
Her mouth fell open. “Don’t talk to me like that, and don’t treat me like a child.”
“Then stop acting like one and think of someone other than yourself.”
Oh, she wanted to argue. He could see the fire in her eyes. She looked away from him as her cheeks flamed. “I’m not the one riding with every posse Beckwith calls up.” She reached up, grazed the bullet hole in his hat and shook her head. “I want you to be more careful.” Her shoulders slumped, her breathing slowed and, finally, she sighed in defeat. “I should be, too. I should have asked Emilio or Billy or even Ian to follow her. I just didn’t think it was still so lawless here.”
He tilted her chin up, too exhausted to keep this fight going. “You will be more careful next time?”
“I will.”
“I’m sorry, I feel like this is my fault.” Mollie skirted a wide berth around Hawthorn and approached them. “I shouldn’t have come over here. Amanda is …” She faded off and McIntyre nodded. This new man he sought to become wrestled for the first time with stinging disappointment, in himself for nearly giving in to a mindless rage, and in Amanda for throwing away a brighter future.
“You had to try,” he said. “I’ll speak to her again. Perhaps that will make the difference.”
A few feet from them, his battered opponent stirred. McIntyre stepped in front of the girls, in case the man had any fight left in him. He prayed he didn’t. McIntyre didn’t think he had the strength to lift an arm, much less throw another punch.
Hawthorn rose to all fours, and stayed there for a moment. Getting a second wind, he staggered to his feet, his back to the group. He turned and met McIntyre’s gaze. Hate flickered in his eyes but died out. Wiping the blood from his face, he saluted the victor with a cursory nod and turned away.
Hawthorn slapped a drying sheet out of his way, dipped behind the line and disappeared into a floating, drifting forest of laundry. The man hadn’t retrieved his shirt or coat, which lay untouched in the dirt. Perhaps he would, but McIntyre suspected Hawthorn wanted to get out of Defiance as quickly and as quietly as possible.
So they had settled their differences God’s way and it had worked out. He stole a glance up at heaven and offered his appreciation again, still marveling at the wisdom of the answer.
~~~
Rebecca plucked six straight pins from the cushion on the bed and wedged them between her lips. Moving carefully, she knelt behind Naomi’s wedding gown so she could finish pinning the bustle. This dress might just turn out to be the most ravishing creation she had ever sewn, or re-sewn, as it were.
Thank God they’d brought it with them. So far, she had cut both the underskirt and the peplum, pinned them into a more narrow style, and now only needed to shape and pin the bustle. The sewing itself would go quickly.
Surprised by an unexpected burst of melancholy, she settled back on her knees and studied the gown. For a moment, she caressed the white silk and thought about her own wedding. A little white church. Ben standing at the altar, his curly, dark hair grazing his collar, a huge grin lighting his face. Sweet, patient, soft-spoken Ben who had given her such a beautiful child in Gracie.
A lump formed in her throat like it always did when she thought about the missed birthdays and empty Christmases. Seven years without them. It felt like a hundred. Sometimes it felt like mere minutes.
“Miss Rebecca?”
Startled, she nearly swallowed the pins. Quickly, Rebecca wiped her eyes and peered around the dress.
Ian nodded. “Aye, I thought I would find ye here.” He stepped into the room as she rose to her feet, plucking pins from her mouth. Flapping his Balmoral bonnet against his leg, he surveyed the dress. “Miss Naomi will be such a picture of loveliness in that, I’d best be prepared to catch Charles when his knees buckle.”
Rebecca laughed and came around to join him. “Yes, I was just thinking it will be the prettiest dress I’ve ever made. You know, we’ve gotten quite a lot of use out of it. It was my dress before it was Naomi’s.”
“Was it now?” He nodded again, but something about his demeanor struck her as odd. Still flapping his hat, he also rocked slightly on his heels. “I’m sure you were a lovely bride as well.” He reached up and scratched his silvery beard on the left side … and then on the right. Rebecca wondered if he could possibly be … nervous?
Oh, Lord, please let him be here to talk about something other than Phineas Fog. Trying to feign calm and polite disinterest, she fiddled with the pins in her palm and waited for him to speak.
Ian raised his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “So, I’ve come, Miss Rebecca, to see if ye would like to join me for dinner tonight?”
Rebecca wanted to keep her hope afloat, but she didn’t understand the invitation. They ate dinner together almost every night. “You do remember that the restaurant is closed? Frankly, we weren’t planning on cooking even for ourselves. We thought we might simply have biscuits and beans.”
Uncertainty turned into resolve on Ian’s face and he stepped closer to Rebecca, so close she almost stepped back. “Nay, I was inviting ye to dinner at my cabin. Ye’ve never been and I would like to cook us dinner.”
She had to lock her jaw to keep her mouth from falling open. She looked into his eyes, the blue of an infinite ocean, and flicked a glance over the wrinkles that framed them. “I’d love to.”
“I’ll send Emilio for ye aboot six, if that’s fine?”
“Yes it is. Fine indeed.” An enormous grin threatened to break loose but she wrestled it into a precariously-controlled smile.
“Well, then,” Ian bobbed his head. “Till six.”
Rebecca stood stock still and breathless till she heard the
front door close, before she dared believe.
Oh, Father, please let him say he loves me. Please let him tell me I’m beautiful.
The prayer sounded ridiculous, but Rebecca wanted to know, one last time, that she was still a desirable woman. That the wrinkles around her own eyes were alluring, that her girlish charms had matured into elegance.
I see love so often in his eyes, Lord, but he never reaches out. I am not getting any younger and the days are slipping by. Our life on this earth is a quick breath and then we’re gone. Please encourage Ian to hear the ticking of the clock.
~~~
Thirty-Eight
Holding her breath because the wedding dress was as loaded with pins as a plump porcupine, Naomi carefully slid her arms through the pearl-covered sleeves and turned toward the mirror.
She sucked in an awed breath. Rebecca’s skill with a needle was nothing short of miraculous.
Holding the back together, her sister smiled expectantly. “Well …?”
Naomi was stunned. She simply couldn’t believe the work Rebecca had done in such a short amount of time. The biggest change, of course, was in the skirt. Once a huge, voluminous wave of pearls and silk, the overskirt had been cut and gathered in back, forming a beautiful and very stylish bustle. The underskirt, simple silk with a row of pearl clam shells at the hem, had also been cut, gathered, and pinned into a more slender style than the previous fashion.
The dress was gorgeous and nearly a perfect fit. Naomi touched the shoulder, remembering the tear. Rebecca had spent three days after the wedding repairing the dress so Naomi wouldn’t have a reminder of the fight.
Embarrassed that her eyes had filled with tears, she blinked quickly to keep them from spilling over. “Oh, I swanny, you’ve missed your calling, Rebecca. You’ve outdone yourself.” Naomi imagined stepping out the back door, slowly walking down the steps, past a small crowd of guests … to Charles. She knew he would be dressed to the nines. And now, Naomi had a dress to match. “Do you know what the best part is?” Rebecca raised her chin, waiting for the answer. “Charles has no idea I brought my wedding dress with me. I bet he thinks I’ll wear my blue muslin.”
Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) Page 24
