A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (14 page)

“You ride well,” the
boy said between panting breaths. “For a woman.”

“OH!” Naomi swatted the
boy’s thigh, feigning anger.

Downstream, two
thousand head of cattle mooed and sloshed lazily in a long stretch of the
water, and milled about on both sides. At least two dozen cowboys hollered and
waved lariats, keeping the beeves under control.

“Not too many white
folks can compete with an Injun on a horse.”

Naomi gasped at the
insult and spun her horse around to face the dusty cowboy with a stub of a
cigarette hanging from his mouth. Two Spears’s face clouded over and his mouth
flattened into a thin, angry line. Oh, how she wished he hadn’t heard that.

Naomi rode her horse
over to the man. He tipped his hat back, revealing the stark contrast between
his dirty face and clean forehead. “You must be the missus.”

“Yes I am,” she
half-whispered, half-growled. “And he’s my son. I don’t appreciate the use of
the word
Injun
.”

“Oh, my apologies, ma’am.”
He dipped his hat in a
contrite
gesture. “My
apologies, son,” he said to Two Spears. “It was poorly-worded
praise
. I only meant to
compliment
you on your riding skills. You sit the saddle like you was born to it.”

“Yes, he’s a natural.”
Naomi extended her hand, eager to start anew. “I’m Naomi McIntyre. This is my
son, Two Spears.”

The man removed a worn
glove and took Naomi’s hand. “Lane Chandler. Your foreman.”

Pounding hooves
interrupted the introductions as Charles rode into the meeting, his tailored
suit as dusty as Lane’s mail order clothes. “Is everything all right?”

Naomi saw concern,
perhaps suspicion in her husband’s eyes. She reached out and touched his arm. “Fine.
We were just getting introduced to Mr. Chandler.”

“Reckon I owe you an
apology too. I believe Mrs. McIntyre and your boy there know I meant no harm,
but I’ll watch my language in the future.”

Naomi leaned into Charles
and whispered, “He used the word
Injun
.”

“And it won’t happen
again,” Lane promised.

Charles looked more
puzzled by the apology than appreciative of it. “See that it doesn’t.”

“Yes sir.” Lane lowered
his hat. “I’ll take half the men and get ’em settled in the bunkhouse, then
bring in the rest about dark, minus those riding night herd.”

Charles waited a moment
before answering, creating an awkward pause. “As the opportunity arises,
instruct these men on their language, as well.”

A look of understanding
passed between the two. Lane nodded and trotted off to see the hands. Charles
didn’t look at Naomi but steered his horse over to Two Spears. “I saw your
race. You beat Naomi.
I
have never beaten Naomi.” He started to touch
the boy’s hair, seemed to re-think it, instead merely nodding as he passed by
him. “Keep that up and she will put a frog in your bed.”

As Charles trotted
after Lane, a plethora of expressions played out on the boy’s face—confusion,
uncertainty, but finally, the faintest hint of pride.

“You do ride well.”
Naomi nudged Buttercup to pull up beside Mandan. “And you’re the first man in
the house to beat me.”

Two Spears frowned and
slapped his reins back and forth across the saddle horn. “Why would you put a
frog in my bed?”

“Would you prefer a snake?”

“Yes.”

Naomi found the deadpan
answer so endearing, she couldn’t help herself. Laughing, she leaned over and
hugged Two Spears. At first he was stiff, surprised, but softened a little after
a moment. Naomi tapped him lightly on the nose. “You are adorable, Two Spears.”

Mandan tossed his head
and nickered, as if he agreed.

McIntyre thought better
of Lane explaining things to the men. Especially since he felt as though he’d
missed an important moment back there between the foreman and Naomi. He trotted
up beside Lane. “I decided I’ll address the men. Makes more sense coming from
me what I expect . . . of all of you.”

Lane raised his hat,
dropped it again. “You didn’t tell me your son was a half—I mean—Indian,” he
corrected.

But McIntyre had heard
the intended word.
Half-breed
. “I didn’t know that would disturb you.”
He did not try to hide his annoyance.

“Well, we’ve had a fair
amount of trouble with ’em in Texas. Bloodthirsty, merciless savages.”

“I would not
necessarily disagree, but that makes it all the more important to raise Two
Spears without hate and bigotry.” He slid his gaze over to his foreman. “Wouldn’t
you agree?”

“I know he’s just a
boy. Took me by surprise is all. You know,” Lane shifted in the saddle to face
McIntyre, “generally speaking, these hands will be good as gold around you and
your wife. They know their place. The boy, though,” he sucked his teeth. “I’ll
do my best, but some of these riders have lost family to the Comanche. One
Indian is the same as another to them.”

McIntyre pulled up his
horse and Lane stopped too.

“Then we need to make
it abundantly clear that my son is to be treated with the same respect as me.”

Lane seemed to think
about it for a second before nodding. “Yes sir.”

McIntyre had the
distinct impression his foreman acquiesced merely to end the discussion rather
than solve a problem.

That would do . . .
for now.

McIntyre leaned back on
the corral fence, waiting for the men to finish picking bunks and unloading bed
rolls. Thick clouds rolling in from the east cut the evening sky in half, and
thunder echoed off the distant mountains.  

Gradually, the men
filtered out to the bunkhouse porch and either draped themselves over porch
rails or settled on benches and chairs.

“That’s the last of
them,” Lane said, pulling paper and tobacco from his pocket to roll a smoke.

McIntyre didn’t move.
Instead, he studied the men. Mostly young, in their twenties and thirties,
dusty, haggard, and unkempt. Shaggy hair. One veteran with no hair. Lean,
weather-beaten faces in need of shaves. Curious eyes. He didn’t see any
animosity in their stares. Good. Now he would watch for the change.

He pushed off the fence
and approached them. “Lane here has assured me that you are fine, experienced
cowboys. He has also assured me that you are not choirboys.”

Chuckles rippled
through the group.

“And that’s fine.”
McIntyre pushed his hat back an inch. “What you do on your own time is your own
business . . . as long as it does not affect your work here at
the King M Ranch.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Now, there is only
one saloon in Defiance—”

“What?” A young man,
who had been leaning his chair back, dropped it with a thud. “You still got the
Iron Horse, right?” He seemed to think better of his bold tone, and changed it
to something more contrite. “I mean, I thought you owned that too. I was eager
for a look-see.”

“I did own it. I closed
it. Now Delilah Goodnight has come here and opened a new place.”

The boys muttered
amongst themselves. A few hooted, and a couple whistled with delight.

“I see most of you know
her. So let me be perfectly clear. If you go to Delilah’s for a night of
entertainment and do not show up here for work the next morning, don’t bother
showing up at all.”

They did not react
orally to the pronouncement, but understanding dawned in their expressions. A
few nodded. McIntyre wanted to say more, warn them about her place, urge them
to avoid it, but he knew that would be stunningly hypocritical at this point.
These boys knew him by his old reputation.

“One last thing. This
is my home. Treat it with respect. My wife and son live here. Treat them with
the respect you would show me. Watch your language and behave like gentlemen in
front of them.
Both
of them.”

Lane stepped up beside
him. “You boys will be interested to know that there’s a rugby ball in the
bunkhouse if you’re inclined to play. And Mr. McIntyre has also been gracious
enough to supply us with a few bottles of whiskey a week, cards, and poker
chips.”

The bald gent, a
weather-beaten cowpuncher several years past retirement, swung his head up. “You’re
providing whiskey? What about women?”

The men chuckled.
McIntyre did not. “The whiskey is to be used in moderation. If there are any
drunkards among you, you will not be here long.”

Faces clouded. Stares
hardened. Lane jumped in. “Delilah has promised us all free drinks Saturday
night, so that’s where you can tie your knot in the devil’s tail. Behave
yourselves out here.”

McIntyre looked at
Lane, unhappy about the news. Delilah didn’t give anything away, especially
liquor. “When did she make that offer?”

“Yesterday. Strutted up
and introduced herself. Bought me a drink.” That sideways grin tipped his
mouth. “Don’t worry, Johnny Reb. I know she’s tryin’ to buy friends. And I’m
not for sale.”

“What about them?”

“I’m their foreman, not
their momma. Oh,” Lane snapped his fingers and addressed the men again. “There’s
a church in Defiance now too, boys. You won’t believe who’s pastorin’ it.” He
paused for effect. “Logan Tillane.”

A man at the end of the
porch—lean, lanky like a grasshopper, and a little older than most of the
others—cursed and rose so fast he knocked his chair back. “Tillane?”

“Relax, Cloer. The way
Delilah tells it, he’s gone all religious and such. Cloer’s wide eyes didn’t
relax. Lane elbowed McIntyre lightly. “Last time Cloer ran into Logan, the man
threatened to kill him. But he was so drunk, and Cloer was so fast, Logan
missed the shot.”

More chuckles
circulated, but McIntyre heard the fear, the uncertainty. He waved his hand. “Logan
is a good man. Whatever was between you, I’d put money down that he is willing
to let it go. And he is a good preacher. Who better to talk of the love of God
than a man who has been in some dark places?”

“You sure he ain’t
still there?”

McIntyre didn’t see who
asked the question. He shrugged a shoulder in answer. “I’m as sure as I can be
of any man. For what that may be worth.”