A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (27 page)

McIntyre took a deep,
rejuvenating breath and gave in to the allure of cowboying. He could lose his
troubles out here in the fresh air, in the freedom of the saddle. Forget the
newspaper. Forget Delilah.

He and Two Spears rode
alongside Lane, flanking the herd as the crew moved it to greener pastures.
Horns clanking continuously, the animals bellowed and snorted, and kicked up a miserable
amount of dust. The fella riding drag had the least desirable job at the moment
and McIntyre wondered what he’d done to annoy Lane.

For the most part, the
herd moved steadily and calmly through a narrow valley naturally contained on
both sides by hills filled with tall, thick stands of Ponderosa pines. It
opened up a half-mile ahead into a much larger area rimmed by tall, steep-sided
mesas, easy stations from which to keep an eye on the cattle.

“You’ve got one pretty
spread here, Johnny Reb.” Lane raised his quirt and waved it at a heifer wandering
away. “It’s gonna be a fine place to raise cattle,” he looked sideways at
McIntyre and Two Spears, “and a family.”

“I hope to make it one
of the finest ranches in the state. We shall see.”

Lane shook his head. “I’d
a never pegged you for a cattleman. You sure have changed since I saw you last,
what, back in seventy—” he stopped suddenly and tilted his head, staring out at
the herd.

Puzzled, McIntyre
looked and listened for a moment, but didn’t notice anything amiss.

Two Spears lifted his
chin. “They are nervous.”

“Yeah,” Lane whispered.

Then
McIntyre heard it. A change. The mooing and grunting changed in pitch, higher
and shorter. Some animals slowed their pace, some tried to back up or
turnaround. He could almost see the fear spreading through the herd. Their
horses too, started prancing, and pinned their ears back.

Lane sniffed.

“Fire,” Two Spears
said.

“Heck.” Lane spurred
his horse and took off. “You two stay out of the way!”

Before he’d ridden
fifty feet the entire herd’s mood had changed. He pounded toward the two
cowboys up ahead, also riding flank, holding his hat over his head. Not waving
it, though, McIntyre noted. A signal. The two men stood in the saddle and
surveyed the turbulent flow of beef.

A shot rang out, but
not from the cowboys. The sound came from the shadowy pines across the glen.
The herd immediately turned into a churning, spinning sea of angry thousand-pound
waves. Then smoke wafted out of the woods, but further up than where the shot
had come. When it reached the leaders, the animals broke, followed almost
instantly by the whole herd. Running in every direction, the deafening thunder
of their hooves shook the ground, rolling over the valley like the sound of an
advancing army.

McIntyre knew he and
Two Spears were too close. They could be swallowed by this maelstrom in an
instant. “Ride, Two Spears. Get up the hill!”

Another shot. Dirt
kicked up a few feet from them. He drew his gun, but he didn’t have time to
scan the woods. “Now! Go!” He needed to get his son out of this melee. The boy
kicked Mandan to a gallop and was easily pulling away when the horse went down,
tripping, and rolling. McIntyre’s heart lurched to his throat as he shot past
his son, but Two Spears leaped from the saddle, hit the ground hard, and
tumbled a few feet from the horse.

Holstering his Colt,
McIntyre jerked Traveller up, spun him around, and charged back for Two Spears.
He looked beyond the boy at a massive wave of horns, hooves, and hides
thundering toward them. Two Spears glanced at the cattle headed his way too,
and bolted for his father, one arm outstretched, reaching for rescue. McIntyre
spurred his horse again, desperate for more speed, to move faster, to beat the wall
of beef.

McIntyre grabbed Two
Spears’s hand, snatched the boy up behind him as Traveller spun on a dime, and
the three lunged for the tree line, dirt and grass flying behind them. The roar
from the herd was deafening, but McIntyre didn’t look back. He could hear
shouts and whistles from the cowboys, but no more rifle shots. He held on to
Two Spears with one arm and spurred Traveller into an all-out run.

They bounded for the
trees and only slowed when there was forest on all sides. Breathing a little easier,
McIntyre tugged on the reins and brought his horse down to a jog. They pivoted
and helplessly watched the wild-eyed cattle scattered hither and yon, running,
turning, charging. Cowboys rode on the fringes, yipping, whistling, slapping
whips, waving hats and lariats, all but invisible in the dust cloud.

McIntyre could still
smell smoke, but mixed with the dust, it seemed the promise of flames had not
materialized.

He rested an elbow on
the saddle horn and shook his head. Smoke? Rifle shots? That was no accident. “Are
you all right, Two Spears?”

“Yes.”

His voice sounded small
and frail. McIntyre noticed then the grip Two Spears had around his waist. The
child was clutching him with unmistakable desperation. McIntyre wouldn’t make
too much out of it, but he was both relieved and gratified he was there for his
son. He squeezed Two Spears’s hands lightly. “We’re all right. All right.” He
swallowed the fear that had turned his mouth dry as an empty draw. Slowly the
thunder ebbed then faded out as the complaining animals bottlenecked at the
entrance to the glen. Believing the cowboys had the herd mostly under control,
he nudged Traveller with his heels. “Now let’s go see what happened and help
these boys finish.”

It took several hours
for them to round up all the wayward animals, and they did it with a wary eye
on the forest. McIntyre had told them about the rifle shots, knowing at the
same time the bullets had been meant for him . . . or Two
Spears.

He felt like the
shooter had missed intentionally, so this stampede had been some kind of
warning. Could he blame it on a disgruntled, fired cowboy? Or perhaps Delilah
had put someone up to the mischief? 

Maybe the truth was a
combination of the two.

Lane rode up, wiping
sweat and dirt from his face. “Well, I reckon we’ve got ’em all gathered back
up.” He studied McIntyre for a second, then
tsked
. “You and I know this
was no accident. Somebody tried to stampede those beeves. If it hadn’t been for
the Herefords, these Longhorns would be back in Texas by now.”

“Whoever shot at us, I
believe missed on purpose.”

Lane paused wiping his
face with his bandana. “This was just some kind of warnin’ then?”

“Perhaps telling us
things will escalate.”

McIntyre lifted the
painting of a tranquil mountain valley off its hook and set it on the floor.
His wall safe uncovered, he spun the dial expertly and snatched the door open.
As he counted out ten thousand dollars, Ian muttered something in the other
room that sounded darn close to a curse word. McIntyre had to chuckle. Putting
that old press back together was proving to be a project for an engineer. But
they were determined—they
all
were determined not to let Delilah beat
them.

Somehow, from this mess
and the stampede, during a surprisingly simple prayer for guidance, God had
given McIntyre an idea. Perhaps it wouldn’t stop Delilah entirely, but it might
slow her down. Convince her they would not stop fighting.

He tapped the bills
into a tight, crisp pile, then closed his safe.

Behind him, someone
knocked softly on his office door.

“Just a moment.” He
re-hung the portrait and slipped behind his desk. He laid the new money down in
front of him as Corky peeked around the door. “You wanted to see me?”

“Yes. Please have a
seat.”

Corky settled in and
leaned forward, rapt with attention. “What can I do for you, Mr. McIntyre?”

McIntyre almost
grinned. He slid the stack of cash toward Corky. “There is ten thousand
dollars. I want you to take that money, buy a wagon, remove the Chinese girls
from The Crystal Chandelier, and deliver them to the mission at Cortes. Give
them each $500 and you may keep the rest.”

Corky’s mouth fell
open. McIntyre let the man’s silence go on as long as necessary.

Finally, he gulped. “You
want me to kidnap ’em?”

“Kidnapping would only
apply if they were at The Crystal Chandelier of their own free will. They are
slaves. I want them gone before any more of them are auctioned off.”

Slack-jawed, Corky fell
back in the chair. “I–I–how am I supposed–how much is that exactly?”

“You will give the
ladies twenty-five hundred. A wagon, horses, and supplies will cost you less
than three hundred. I imagine you’ll pocket somewhere around seven thousand
dollars.”

The round-faced little
fellow looked thunderstruck. “Do . . . you . . . want
me to come back with the money?”

McIntyre chuckled. “It
is yours to keep. And I don’t think you’d better ever come back to Defiance if
you do this.”

“Why me? I ain’t never
stole no
people
before.”

“Corky, I am well aware
you supplement your panning income with stealing. You have a quick hand and a
sharp mind. Emilio can help you. We three are the only ones to know. You tell
anyone else and your life will not be worth a plug nickel.”

Corky frowned down at
his lap for several minutes, chewing on the offer. Finally, he looked up. “I
want to know if I can tell one other person.”

“Who?”

“Chang Lee.”

It took McIntyre a
moment to place the name. “Mrs. Lee’s son? The young man who works at the
laundry?”

“Yes sir.

“Why him?”

“Sometimes he drives a
freight wagon down to Glenwood Springs. He speaks Chinese too. And
you
know that Delilah parades those girls on the street every day at three o’clock.”

Interested, McIntyre
leaned back in his chair. “And?”

“Well, I was thinkin’,
if somebody could cause a big enough distraction, I could just herd those girls
around to the back of the hardware store, load ’em up into empty whiskey
barrels, and Chang Lee and me could ride on out of town, slick as a whistle.”
He made a slicing gesture with his hand and whistled. “I’d have to pay him
somethin’, but I think it’d be worth it.”

McIntyre agreed.
Grinning, he slid the money to Corky. “I knew I had the right man for the job.”

“Naomi, do you trust
me?”

Naomi pulled her
attention away from the crowded street, and looked at Charles over Two Spears’s
head, wondering if she’d heard him correctly. He had asked them to come into
town with him today, and he’d had such a jaunty tone in his voice she couldn’t
refuse. Besides, the last few days his mood had improved considerably. He had
been more willing to spend time with Two Spears too, coaxing the boy into
shadowing him some around the ranch.

“Do I trust you?” She
had to raise her voice. The din on the street from wagons, men, jangling tack,
and overloaded packsaddles was intrusive. “Of course I do. If I didn’t, well, I
wouldn’t have married you.”

“Don’t be flippant, your
Ladyship.” He steered their wagon around two men arguing in the street. He
watched them for a moment, probably to make sure they weren’t going to start
shooting then returned to the road. “I need you to think about the question,
all it entails, and answer it thoughtfully.”

She frowned at him. The
question annoyed her. “Do I trust you?” She enunciated each word carefully. He
loved her. Had her best interests at heart. She ruffled Two Spears’s hair and
grinned. He would come to love this boy too. “Yes, my beloved, I trust you.”

“Something is about to
transpire.” He brought somber dark eyes back around to her, the Southern lilt
in his voice hardened. “It
will
be all right.” He raised his brow, as if
asking did she believe him. Did she trust him.

“All right.”

“Good girl.”

He pulled the wagon
over and parked in front of the bakery. The scent of warm, fresh bread and
cinnamon wafted to them. “Why don’t you two get some apple turnovers or some
such? I’ll be . . . along.”

She nodded and waited
for him to come around to her side. He offered her his hand and as she stepped
down he stopped her at eye level. His face was a mask. She couldn’t read him,
but she sensed he needed her trust. Slowly he set her down, but a commotion on
the other side of the street drew their attention.

Through the traffic,
Naomi caught flashes of Delilah prancing down the street, her purple parasol
followed by five brightly-colored straw parasols. Beneath them, a gaggle of
young Oriental girls trudged forward, heads bowed, eyes averted from the
prying, poking, hooting men on the street.

“Will this town ever
change?” she wondered aloud in disgust.

“Yes.” His firm answer
brought her attention back to him. He touched her cheek. “Get inside.”

Puzzled, hopeful, Naomi
waited for Two Spears to jump down. The boy leaped from the wagon and hurried
to the bakery door. She joined him, but turned back quickly for a last glance
at Charles. Dodging traffic, he zigzagged his way toward the mercantile. Logan
stood under the entryway, and waved when he spotted his friend.

Well, how much trouble
can they get into?

A bit more reassured,
Naomi stepped into the bakery.

“Naomi, what a pleasant
surprise.” Sara finished sliding a tray of oven-fresh, aromatic peanut butter
cookies onto a platter and set the empty pan down. “I’ve been wondering when I
might see you next.

“Sara, good morning. I’ve
missed you.” Sara was sole owner of the bakery now. Her husband had been killed
a few months back, on Main Street, during a robbery. The couple had supplied
the hotel with wonderful baked goods, and Naomi hoped that arrangement would
start again as soon as the new hotel was finished. But right now, the most
tempting of treats covered the counter and several shelves. A child’s idea of
heaven. “And this is my son, Two Spears.”

“Well, glad to know
you.” The chubby woman wiped her hands on her apron and offered one to the boy
for a shake. A little hesitantly, he accepted. “Ah, there’s a good lad. And he
has a strong grip. Well,” she turned back to Naomi, but slipped Two Spears a
fresh cookie at the same time, as if she could hide the generosity, “what can I
do for ya?”

The boy turned the
cookie over a time or two, took a tiny bite, and then happily took a much
larger one.

“I thought we’d each
get a cinnamon roll or a turn-over. Do you have a preference, Two Spears?
Perhaps you’d like another peanut butter cookie.” The boy had all but inhaled
half of the gift.

“Perhaps.” Mouth full,
eyes glowing like a starving man staring at steak, he surveyed all the breads,
and pies, and cookies spread out before him. “There is so much.” He swallowed
the bite. “I have never seen so much food.”

The women laughed, and
Naomi squeezed his shoulder. “This place is a bakery, honey. Sara makes only sweet
treats.”

“I am glad,” he
whispered, struck by the array of tempting pastries.

“Well, while he’s
thinking, Sara, I think I’ll have a cinnamon roll.”

“All righty.” The woman
picked up a small piece of wax paper from a stack and reached to the shelf beside
her. “Let’s get you a nice fat one.” She plucked one up with the paper and
turned to Naomi. “Here ya—” her gaze shot past Naomi and her face scrunched
into a look of disapproval.

Naomi spun, and her
heart fell. The traffic on the street had stopped; dozens of men were staring
at something, their backs to the bakery. Shoving, jostling, leaning in,
standing on toes to get a better view of something, the gawkers pressed in, and
more men joined, running from every direction.

Charles
.

Two Spears, also staring
out the window, froze, the last bite of cookie in his mouth. Naomi laid her
hand on his shoulder. “Stay here.”

Stomach churning, Naomi
marched out the door to find out what exactly was transpiring on Main Street.

Naomi pushed, shoved,
pulled, and shouldered her way through the smelly, sweaty mass of men to emerge
on the edge of a circle. Her heart dropped into her stomach at the cause for
the commotion.

Charles and Logan
circled each other, slowly, carefully, fists up, jaws clenched.

“You’ve had this coming
for a long time, McIntyre.”

“Not as long as you.”

“I should have killed
you that time I drew on ya.”

“You may yet have your
chance.”

Naomi blinked, covered
her mouth with her hands. This couldn’t be happening. Why would these two
fight? “Charles, what are you doing?”

She had distracted him
for an instant, long enough for Logan to step in and swing. He caught Charles
in the jaw with a sickening thud and Naomi screamed. She attempted to run into
the middle of the fight but hands, the hands of complete strangers, held her
back. “Let me go!” She squirmed and fumed, but they held her in place.

“You’d best stay outta
this, ma’am.”

“Can’t let you
interfere. Men gotta settle this.”

She managed one more
furious attempt, but stopped suddenly when Delilah emerged across from her. The
woman shoved and elbowed her way to the front row, a satisfied smirk growing on
her face as she took in the situation.

Naomi settled down,
unwilling to look like a . . . a crazed wild cat while Delilah
stood over there, all calm and poised in her beautiful lavender dress. Just as
carefree as a nymph, she twirled her parasol as punches went back and forth.
Behind her, the five Oriental girls tried to hide their faces beneath brightly
colored parasols. Watching over all of them, a black man the size of a
mountain. His shiny bald head and shoulders towered over the crowd. No matter
his size, he moved and swayed with the swell of people jostling one another,
trying to get a look at the fight.

In the meantime,
Charles kept up this inexplicable battle, trading punches with the preacher. He
jabbed Logan in the nose, snapping the preacher’s head back. Logan shook his
head, wiped away the trickle of blood at his mouth, and took another swing.
Charles ducked, and came up with a blow to Logan’s midsection.

Logan bent over with a loud
“Oooof,” but then countered with a punch to Charles’s kidney. Tangled, they fell
into the crowd, which spit them back out into the clearing, and the punches
continued. Men whistled, clapped, and hooted. They surged on Naomi and she was
forced forward a few inches, but the hairy, smelly miner beside her spread his
arms and pushed back. “Give ’em room,” he hollered, sounding cross. “I’ve been
waiting on this fight seven years. Don’t crowd ’em.”

Charles pushed Logan off
him, took a swipe at his jaw, and missed. Sweat poured down their faces,
leaving trails in the dirt from their temples to their necks. A red welt rose
on Charles’s right eye. His left was swelling closed. Logan’s mouth still ran a
trickle of red which dripped on his shirt.

Oh, God, why are they
doing this? Stop them, please.

The crowd had grown to
enormous proportions. The cheers were deafening, almost disorienting Naomi. She
felt like she was watching a fight in the Coliseum. Still the crowd grew. Men climbed
posts for better views, even stood in the saddles of their mounts. Eager spectators
leaned from the second-story windows of the assayer’s office and leather shop.
Somehow, a few determined souls climbed up on the roof of the marshal’s office!

Speaking of . . .
Naomi scanned the crowd. No marshal. No deputy.

Charles and Logan
exchanged blow after blow, some missing, some connecting. The match was almost
exactly a tit-for-tat exchange. Both men shared equally of abused and bloodied
flesh. Their faces bled. Their shirts hung in shreds. Dirt clung to wounds and
sweaty skin. Still, they fought on. The sound of fists on flesh and the stench
of the closed-in bodies nauseated Naomi. Several minutes passed and the
grueling battle showed no signs of ending.

Winded, moving as if
their arms were filled with lead, they continued to circle each other, but they
looked more like drunks searching for their beds.

Logan threw a punch,
missed Charles by a mile, and spiraled to the ground, landing on his hands and
knees. Gasping for air, he stayed put for a moment.

Surely they can’t go
much longer
 . . .

But Logan stubbornly
clawed his way to his feet again. Charles staggered forward and struck him with
a jab to the cheek. Logan went down instantly. Charles collapsed on his back beside
him.

Both men could barely
talk. Sweat rolled off them. Their chests pumped.

Please, God, this has
to be over.

“I can be done . . .
if you think we’re done,” Logan gasped.

Charles, huffing,
puffing, surveyed the crowd, paused for a moment on Delilah, then rolled over
and climbed to all fours. “We’re done.”

At that moment, Naomi
realized someone was still holding her. She pulled away and ran to her husband.
The crowd muttered and booed, unhappy with a tie, and slowly disbanded, but
there was quite a bottleneck of people.

Naomi fell to her knees
beside her gasping husband. “Are you all right?” She pulled a handkerchief from
her hip pocket and dabbed at the numerous cuts on his face. “You scared the
life out of me. What was all this about?”