A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (21 page)

Logan was taken aback. “That’s
kind of you, Big Jim, but I’m pretty capable of dealing with any unwanted
visitors.”

“Know you are. I just
have a pet peeve about what the bootlicker did to your door. Cowardly acts are
a burr under my saddle. And last night, well, I wasn’t sure what kind of a mood
might come over Rizzo.”

“I see. Well . . .
will you be staying for church?”

“Nah, but I did tell a
couple of fellas in our company about you. They’ll be here.”

“I thank you for that
then and for your help last night.” The two shook hands. “I’ll keep the front
pew open for you, just in case.”

Big Jim winked at him. “You
do that.”

Logan stood at his
pulpit, astounded by the full pews. True to Big Jim’s word, three men he had
invited showed up for preaching, and three more filtered in that Logan had
invited earlier in the week. Two of the new hands from McIntyre’s ranch had ridden
in with their boss as well. Nice to know some of them weren’t in jail.

Ian and Rebecca nodded
courteously at him as they sat; Emilio and Mollie trailing them did the same.
And Hannah and her son entered last, followed by Billy. One of these days, he
was going to ask the young man what was on his mind. Logan had caught Billy
staring hard at him several times, as if he was trying to place him. Logan was
pretty sure he didn’t know Billy. He nodded at him. Billy nodded back. Still
puzzled, Logan turned his attention to the whole congregation.

The church felt almost full.
He was grateful, and for an instant, he wondered if he
was
making an
impact. Then a noticeable absence hit him hard.

He’d thought for sure
Mary Jean would be a regular.

Lack of sleep fought to
pull Hannah under. The hard pew, Little Billy’s squirming, not even the walk to
church made a dent in her grogginess. All she wanted was a nap.

The jingle of a wagon
outside snapped her out of the fog and she passed her son to Billy. “I need to
speak with Charles before church. I’ll hurry.”

Billy’s face lit up as
he took his son in his arms. “We’ll be right here . . . won’t
we, little man?”

Hannah, hurrying past
the pews, was struck by how full they were, especially with new faces. She
prayed the numbers would climb every Sunday.

Charles pulled the
wagon to a halt in front of the church and set the brake.

“Good morning. “Hannah
walked to the edge of the church’s porch and waved at the family. “Good to see
y’all this morning.”

“And you,” Naomi
replied, waiting for Charles to come around. Two Spears jumped down like a
little gazelle and gazed up at the church with a bored expression.

Charles helped Naomi
and as they made their way up the steps, Hannah took a step down. “Charles, can
I talk to you for a moment?”

He and Naomi both
looked taken aback by the request.

“It’s about the Oriental
girls at the saloon.”

Charles and Naomi
exchanged understanding glances. “Come on, Two Spears.” She laid a hand on his
shoulders. “Let’s you and me go get a seat.”

“I will be right along,”
Charles promised them then stepped back to the wagon.

Hannah followed. “I
promised Sai Shang I would do something to get the rest of her sisters out of The
Crystal Chandelier.”

Charles’s brow rose. “Now
why would you promise something like that?”

“Because I know you can
do it.”

“Me?”

Hannah’s shoulders
sagged. “You’re going to do something, aren’t you?”

Well aware that her big
china-blue eyes could soften some pretty hard hearts, she gazed up at her
brother-in-law like a lost puppy.

Confusion, guilt, and amusement
flickered across his face. He leaned down and tapped her lightly on the chin. “Those
tricks do not work on me, young lady.” A wry smile tipped his lips. “Besides, I
already know I have to do something.”

Hannah breathed a huge
sigh of relief. “I knew you would.”

“Sai Shang is hiding
somewhere with the Chinese?”

“She’s with Mrs. Lee.”

“I had assumed as much.
It will not take Delilah long to figure that out.” Charles put his arm around Hannah
and gently guided her toward the steps. “Emilio said only you and Mollie know.
Is that still the case?”

“As far as I know.”

“Make sure it stays
that way.”

After services, Logan
shook hands, spent a few minutes talking with everyone at the door, and
promised to join the McIntyres at their ranch for supper. Apparently, they were
having a big Sunday meal to celebrate the arrival of the cattle.

He felt compelled to go
check on Mary Jean first. He spent a few minutes in prayer, trying to determine
if he was hearing the Lord or . . . his own heart.

No clarity came. He
dragged his hand through his hair and rose from his knees. He felt he should
go, but dread nagged him. He really didn’t want to go anywhere near The Crystal
Chandelier, but he didn’t know where she lived. “Lord,” he dropped his hat on
his head and reached for his cartridge belt and holster. “I pray she’s all
right. And I pray you’ll protect me from whatever I might be walkin’ into.”

Rain, steady and almost
peaceful, met him at the door. He went back to his small room in the rear of
the church for his duster then trudged through the summer shower. Sunday
afternoon on a rainy day in Tent Town didn’t slow most of the miners. They
worked their claims or headed to McIntyre’s mine, downpour or sunshine. A few
noticed him as he walked by, but most kept their heads down, focused on their
tin pans or paths through the mud. He’d be willing to bet they’d all notice him
going into The Crystal Chandelier.

His doubts about this
trip, the picture it presented, assailed him as he approached the saloon. Just
then he heard an angelic voice singing “Amazing Grace.” Shockingly, aside from
a piano, no other sound emanated from the saloon. He approached the batwings
and peered in. The place was full but at this hour, the patrons were not drunk
yet. Something, however, had arrested their attention, and they were all
staring in the direction of the bar.

No, the
end
of
the bar, in the corner. A man with a cigar hanging from his mouth sat hunched
over a piano, playing softly, and watching the singer intently, a young lady
with raven hair twisted up in a loose bouffant, and wearing a daringly tight green
dress. A sweet, haunting version of the church favorite passed through her ruby
red lips. Even Logan was mesmerized by the girl’s voice for a moment. Without
thinking, he drifted into the saloon, pulled his hat to his chest, and moved
toward the singer. He shuffled like a man in a trance, the clear, strong voice
holding him spellbound.

The voice was
beautiful. The girl was …

Mary Jean?

The trance shattered
and reality crashed in, swamping him beneath a wave of pain. The kind he couldn’t
put into words .

Mary Jean’s song ended
and The Crystal Chandelier customers applauded with cautious enthusiasm.

“That was great, honey,”
a man sitting halfway back yelled, “but how about something a little more spicy
now?”

Others chimed in,
agreeing. Mary Jean’s eyes widened. Like a trapped animal, she searched the
room for . . . a friendly face, someone who appreciated her
choice of song. But when her eyes fell on Logan, her expression changed from
uncertainty, maybe even fear, to shame.

She hung her head and
scurried to a room behind the bar. The piano player stood up and addressed the
crowd, plucking a cigar from his mouth. “Give her a break, boys. Like I said,
that was an audition. We’ll get her right.”

The men nodded, mumbled
their approval; a smattering of applause went around the room. Logan choked his
hat, wondering if he should go see Mary Jean, or just leave. His insides felt
all twisted up and he couldn’t make his feet move in one direction or the
other.

What had she done to
herself? Why the hair coloring?

A whiff of whiskey
blindsided him with a craving he hadn’t had in months.
I have to get out of
here
 . . .

“Miss Delilah would
like to see you.” A deep, throaty baritone voice jarred Logan out of his
desperate thoughts. He turned to a mountain of flesh and flannel. A black man,
the one he’d seen trailing Delilah, towered over him. 

Logan took an instant
to clear his head. Maybe it was time to see Delilah, confront this woman. Try
to talk to her. Then he would talk to Mary Jean. Maybe this change in her wasn’t
what it looked like.

But it did look an
awful lot like grooming.

At least Delilah had
not requested his presence in her bedroom. He would have had to say no. Her
office was bad enough.

She had the shades
pulled and one lamp burned on the desk, where a plush leather chair waited for
her. Logan sat down in a simple ladder-back across from it. Shadows hid most of
her office, but he knew Delilah was in here with him. He could smell her
over-sweet perfume, mixed with the aroma of whiskey.

The black man left the
room without a word and Logan set his hat on his knee. “I know you’re in here.”

“I’m not hiding.” Glass
clinked against glass. A shot glass full of whiskey appeared in front of his
face, held by long, elegant fingers. “Here.”

He breathed in the
woodsy scent of whiskey. The odor clung to his nose—sweet, evil, tempting, and
he jerked back. “No thank you.”

She set it on the desk
in front of him and meandered around to her side, her bustle swamping the chair
as she settled. Logan swallowed and looked past her and the alcohol, trying to
forget their nearness.

Delilah leaned forward.
In the glow of the lamp, she was startlingly beautiful. The flames flickered in
her eyes, highlighted her high cheekbones. Plump, moist lips and waves of
silky, auburn hair resting on her bare shoulders tempted him to recall the life
he’d once lived. A life with no rules—consequences be damned.

He felt a tightening in
his chest. Darkness swirled around him, and he didn’t mean the shadows. “What
do you want?”

Delilah leaned closer
still, bringing more light to her face, and a hypnotic gleam to her eyes. “Have
I changed that much?”

Logan didn’t know how
to answer. She seemed almost to be pleading with him.

“You’ve aged hard,” she
said, searching his face, “but I still see the boy from Dodge City.”

What
 . . .
?

“Oh, I had to look for
him. But he’s there. Same eyes. Same lips. And then you shaved and I saw the
scar.” She slowly dragged a long red nail down her jaw. “You got that hoisting
yourself up into Bart Tilley’s hayloft, and the hook came undone. Dropped you
on your head.”

The blood in Logan’s veins
slowed to an icy crawl. Suddenly, the memories exploded on him like a Texas
twister. “Victoria?”

The girl he’d been
stone-cold crazy about, but whose name he hadn’t said in years. He’d allowed the
memories of the stolen kisses or romps in the moonlight to play out only in his
dreams.

He stared into her
face, seeing the girl, remembering the innocence. Picnics by the pond. A cane
fishing pole, bare feet hanging off the dock. A Christmas dance with a kiss
under the mistletoe.

Then he’d fallen in
with a group of boys fast enough to outrun anything but trouble. They’d given
Logan his first sip of whiskey.

Victoria couldn’t
compete with his love of the bottle. Too many times he’d chosen the booze over
the girl. Then one day she was simply gone. She’d climbed aboard a stage and
headed off for a job far away from Dodge. At least according to her mother. So
Logan had soothed his broken heart with more whiskey and fist fights—gun fights
when the mood struck or the pay was good.