A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (16 page)

Emilio had enjoyed a
private place to sleep for so long that living in the bunkhouse would take some
getting used to. If he could.

He washed the day’s
dirt off in the rain barrel out back, dunking his head and flipping the water
off. As he came up, he heard a violent thud from the other side of the wall and
stilled. Excited hollering, maybe some scuffling, muffled by the logs, reached
him. Curious, he snatched his hat off the bench and hurried in the back door,
water dripping down his back.

Willy and Lane had Cloer
snugged up between them, and Lane was holding a bottle of whiskey away from the
ranch hand. A deck of cards littered the floor. “I mean it, Cloer, we ain’t
gonna tolerate it.” Lane saw Emilio and tossed him the bottle. “Do somethin’
with that while we put him to bed.” Emilio caught the liquor.

“Hey,” Cloer growled in
angry protest. “
I
bought that bottle.”

Lane snatched the man’s
shoulder back to get his attention off the drink. “Sleep it off and maybe we’ll
let you back in the game.”

Cloer eased off and raised
his hands in surrender. “Fine.”

The two men relaxed
their grip. Somehow, Emilio knew, Cloer wasn’t one to take good advice so peaceably.
Older than all but one of the men, he had a bitter edge to his weathered,
tanned face, as if cowboying was a punishment, not a job. Emilio wasn’t
surprised when the man twisted loose from Lane and Willy and lunged for the
bottle.

Emilio struck Cloer’s
jaw with a fast, hard jab. The ranch hand stopped, his face went blank, but he
didn’t fall. Emilio clocked him one more time, harder.

A few boxing lessons
with Billy had paid off. Cloer went stiff and fell backward like a skinny cedar.
Lane whistled in awe as the man went down. “Good punch, kid. Out cold. You
shoulda yelled ‘Timber.’” He and Willy bent down and dragged their friend over
to an unmade bunk on the bottom row. “Say,” Lane strode back over to Emilio. “You’re
not gonna tell McIntyre about this, are you?”

“Any reason I shouldn’t?”

“Well, I’m the foreman.
I reckon it should be my place to do it.” Lane yanked his red bandana loose
from his neck and dabbed at the sweat on his forehead. “But Cloer’s wife left
him a while back. He still ain’t over it. I just wanna cut him a little slack.
If you’re willin’.”

Lane hooked a thumb
through his belt loop and looked at Emilio with a hopeful expression.

Emilio wasn’t sure
keeping his mouth shut was the right thing to do, but it also seemed wrong to
run to Mr. McIntyre with every little problem. “
Si
. No more trouble,
though.”

“Ah, he’s a good fella,
long as he ain’t drinkin. Liquor makes him a little crazy. We’ll keep him
straight.” Lane touched his forehead in a mock hat-tip. “You got my word.”

Delilah’s heels clicked
curtly as she strode across the wood floor to her bedroom window. In the
distance, the towering mountains, jagged dragon’s teeth, clawed at the twilight
sky. Her gaze traveled slowly down the steep slopes, slid across the rooftops
of the golden-lapped buildings of Main Street Defiance, to settle on Tent Town.

The Crystal Chandelier
happened to occupy the highest point of land on the valley floor. The vantage
point gave her a respectable view of Lime Creek and its rickety sluices,
hundreds of dingy tents and small cabins with their smoking stovepipes, and worn
laundry hanging forlorn and still.

Men and mules, heads
lowered in exhaustion, trudged to and fro beneath her window. To the left, a
row of new, bright white tents contrasted with the filth around them . . .
on the outside. These were the cribs for the older and less desirable girls.

A grubby little
kingdom, but all hers.

She gazed over at the
steeple of the Crooked Creek Chapel and her anger flared like a match. Charles
McIntyre truly had an enemy in Matthew Miller, and she had an agreement to keep
on Matthew’s behalf, but Delilah would make sure she settled the score with
Logan as well.

He had forgotten her.
All those pretty words and promises whispered with desperate innocence so long
ago weren’t even memories now. Not to him, anyway. She wondered if he even
remembered being seventeen back in Dodge City. That was about the time he’d
started drinking. Was that why he’d never come for her? Had he even looked?

If he’d rescued her
from that place, how different their lives might have turned out.

Delilah hugged herself
and turned from the window . . . and the memories. Her simple
room was filled only with an armoire, a huge brass bed, her vanity, and a
hairdressing chair. More furniture was on the way. She always enjoyed making
her boudoir a sanctuary despite the time it took to get the lace, satin, and
furs shipped. But soon . . .

She ran her hand over
the cold brass knob on the foot of her bed. Soon she would get Logan up here,
remind him of everything he’d let slip away, and then she would tear from his
heart any vestige of goodness or faith. If it killed her, she would leave him a
wreck of a man no god could save.

A gentle knock on the
door pulled her away from the dark thoughts.

“Your hot water.” Otis’s
voice.

Delilah let him in and
he set the pitcher over at the salon chair. “Send Mary Jean in.”

Delilah inhaled the
fresh scent of pine in her bedroom as she quickly and skillfully dropped the
opium into the wine glass.
Lumber smells like success.
Pleased that The
Crystal Chandelier was finally open, and the theater only lacked a few small
touches, she turned slowly to Mary Jean.

Now, to get one last
piece of inventory stocked
 . . .

A towel draped around
her shoulders, the girl sat in the salon chair, its back pulled up to Delilah’s
vanity. A basin and the pitcher of warm water waited, but first the wine.

Delilah glided over to
Mary Jean and handed her the glass. “You’ll love this. It’s called sherry.”

“Thank you.” The girl
accepted the wine and took a small sip.

Delilah returned to her
vanity and poured her own glass. “That chair you’re sitting in came direct from
France. It has a lever and I can lean it back. You won’t strain your neck so
much while I wash your hair.”

“Goodness.” Suspicion
or hesitation laced the girl’s voice.

“Why do you sound so . . .
unsure?”

“I was . . .
I was thinking about . . .” Mary Jean faded off, tried again. “I
was just wondering why you’re doing all this for me. The dress, the room, this.”
She motioned with the wine. “I don’t wanna keep going in debt to you, Miss
Delilah.”

“Debt?” Delilah tried
to sound positively shocked. “Mary Jean, I bought you the dress because you
work for me, and you must look nice now that the Chandelier is open. I want to
wash your hair so that I can show you how to style it. Yes, you do owe me some
rent, but you’re working that off at the bar . . . However . . .”
She smiled warmly at the girl. “Well, I will admit, my dear, you certainly have
assets that are being wasted.”

“I don’t want to do
that.” Mary Jean said firmly. Chin raised, she took another sip of wine.

“Of course. I
understand. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I want to put you on the
stage.”

Mary Jean’s eyes
rounded. “The stage?”

“I’ve heard you singing
behind the bar when you clean up. You have a lovely voice. Anyone who can sing
that well surely dreams of the stage.”

Clearly entertaining
the idea, Mary Jean’s eyes filled with starlight. Delilah kept the smile from
her lips and nonchalantly nudged upward the girl’s hand holding the wine.

Absently, Mary Jean
took another sip. “I sang in our church choir and soloed often.”

“I knew it.” Delilah
lifted her own drink between them, “Here’s to a future on the stage.”

Delilah could imagine
the fantasy playing out in Mary Jean’s mind. Another innocent eager for the
glare of the house lights and applause of an adoring crowd.

The girl took another
sip of her sherry. “What would I sing?”

Delilah moved back a
step to observe Mary Jean. The girl’s head swayed ever so slightly, and her
eyelids drooped a tad. The laudanum was slowly snaking its way through her
blood.

“I’m sure our customers
will love anything you choose to perform. I’ll let you do anything you want on
my stage, Mary Jean.” She took the drink away, set it on the vanity beside the
sink, and lowered the chair. She gathered the girl’s hair, a boring mix of dull
brown and grayish blond, and dropped it into the basin. Yes, raven hair would
suit Mary Jean much better. Men would be killing themselves for this sweet,
young thing when Delilah was finished with her. They would bid any price, any
stake, any size gold nugget.

Already counting the
money, she slowly poured a vase of warm water over the girl’s scalp. “Sing like
an angel and I will make sure you’re as beautiful as one.”

Emilio slowed his horse
to a trot and hung back from eleven of the new hands from the ranch. Young men
around his own age or a little older, they had bathed and shaved, even washed
their clothes, and oiled their boots, for their first trip into town. Dub, a
short redheaded fella whose nervous, jerky way of moving unnerved Emilio, had
declared the group would be getting roostered up good tonight. The others had
laughed and howled like wolves as they jumped into their saddles.

Emilio did not have a
good feeling about this outing.

They made it to town
just as the sun slipped behind Red Mountain. The group trotted down Main
Street, nodding and tipping hats at the folks who looked their way. And most
did. A crew this large got attention. The cowboys liked it. Their voices rang
louder, their laughter more boisterous.

Garcia wheeled his
horse around and fell in beside Emilio. Mexican like Emilio, Garcia used his
dark eyes and straight white teeth to impress people, especially women. He wore
a big sombrero, a black bolero jacket, and rode a saddle covered in shiny
silver conchos. 

The big white grin
flashed at Emilio, but he did not want to talk. He found the young man cocky as
a prize bull. Yet Garcia was patient too. He continued to stare.

Finally, Emilio sighed.
“What?”

“Why are you here, my
friend? You act as though we are heading to a funeral what with that sour face
and hunched shoulders. Do you not like good whiskey and bad women?”

Emilio didn’t think it
wise to say he was here on Mr. McIntyre’s behalf. His
patrón
had asked
him to keep these men out of trouble, if possible. That explanation would only
invite ridicule. “I wanted to see someone in town.”

Garcia’s grin spread. “I
see,
Niño
. You like the
bad
whiskey and
good
women.”

Niño?
Emilio chose to ignore the insult. There was probably enough trouble coming
tonight without starting it on the street. “If you worked at being a cowboy
half as hard as you do at moving your lips, you would be foreman tomorrow.”

Garcia’s grin
disappeared so fast, Emilio wondered if he’d imagine it.

The man’s brow dove,
forming a deep ‘v’ in his forehead. “You can call me a lot of things,
Niño
,
but not cow
boy
. I am a
vaquero
.” Up ahead the group kicked their
horses into a lope as they turned the corner at the assayer’s. The rutted,
weedy way to Tent Town. Men hooted and yipped to vent their excitement. “Aha!”
Garcia’s good humor returned instantly and he took off after them. “Enjoy the
funeral,” he taunted over his shoulder.

Emilio grabbed the
doorknob to the town hall and newspaper office, but paused. He wanted to see
Mollie. He wished he could visit with Billy. They often played cards on Saturday
night.

He wanted, most of all,
to see Hannah and Little Billy.

He didn’t
need
to see either of them.

The decision was yanked
from him when the door opened. Mollie smiled up at him, her pretty, petite face
glowing with a smile. “I thought I saw you walk by the window.” She stepped
back and waved him in. “Come on. Billy and Hannah are in the kitchen.”

Emilio appreciated the
red gingham dress Mollie wore. It showed off her tiny waist. A red ribbon held
her long golden hair back and brought out the color of her lips. He caught an
invitation in her expression that warmed him. When she grabbed his hand and
pulled him toward the kitchen, he concentrated on the softness of her skin and
the delicate structure of her fingers. He could get over Hannah if he put his
heart into it.

I have to.

Emilio had missed his
friend. He and Billy shook hands vigorously, and slapped each other on the
back. “Good to see you.”

“You too, you too,”
Billy swept some wayward hair off his forehead and winked at Emilio, sky blue
eyes full of relief. “Ready for some cards? I’m feeling lucky tonight.”