A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (29 page)

Logan flexed a sore
hand slowly, careful not to tear the scabs lose. Four days later and he still
ached heartily. Everywhere. He was no slouch when it came to boxing, but McIntyre
had a savage punch. Yet he had held himself in check. In the back of his mind,
Logan had thought for years he could beat the man. He dropped his hand to the
open Bible on his cot. Now he wasn’t so sure. He didn’t intend to find out,
either. Let sleeping dogs lie.

He ran his stiff,
swollen finger down the page and stopped at Proverbs 21:15.
It is joy to the
just to do judgment: but destruction shall be to the workers of iniquity.

Judgment . . .
justice. There had been justice in freeing those young girls. He did have joy.
While the fight had been costly to his body, he would do it again.

But was he prepared for
whatever Delilah might unleash in retaliation? He could only imagine her fury
at having
all
of her virgins spirited away, so why she was dallying?

He scooped up the box
of hymnals, just arrived from his generous church down in Willow, and marched
out to the pews. He laid them, one by one, on the seats. As he walked, he
prayed—for people in town, for protection, for freedom, and for redemption.

“Preacher.”

Mary Jean’s strangled
voice brought his head up. She closed the door behind her. Tears spilled down
her cheeks as she raised a yellow piece of paper. “I heard from my parents.
They don’t want me back.”

Dropping the box, he
rushed to her and let her fall into his arms. She sobbed for a few minutes into
his shoulder. He whispered, “Shhh,” and let the tears run their course. When
they slowed, he led her over to a pew and they sat.

Wiping her eyes with a
knuckle, she handed him the paper.

You need not come home.
Pa.

Flinching, Logan
crunched the note into a tight little ball. He’d given the girl false hope.
What kind of parents . . .? “I’m sorry. Perhaps I could write to
them—”

“No. It’s better this
way.” She sniffed and squared her shoulders. “Delilah wants me to sing Friday
night. In the theater. This is the best course. Maybe my dreams will come true
after all.”

Friday night in the
theater? Anguish slithered into Logan’s heart. This was not, he believed,
preparation for the dream Mary Jean had in mind. “I thought Friday night was . . .”
he trailed off, not eager to speak his thoughts.

“One of the raunchier
nights?”

“I know what goes on in
there.”

Mary Jean picked up a
hymnal and flipped through it absently. “She said I didn’t have to do anything
other than sing.”

That answer didn’t
satisfy Logan. He couldn’t bring himself to believe the best of Delilah. She
was not the girl he’d known so many years back. His fault. Her fault. Nobody’s
fault. It didn’t matter. She had changed and he couldn’t bring himself to trust
her. “I’ll be there to hear you.”

Mary Jean’s face lit
up. “You will? Thank you. I’m so nervous as it is. To have a friend in the
crowd would . . . would mean a lot to me.”

He clutched her
shoulder for encouragement. “You can count on me.”

Friday night came too
soon, but Logan made his way over to The Crystal Chandelier. He stopped at the batwings,
surprised by the full house. The shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, full tables,
raucous laughter . . . and the heavy, cloying smell of the
whiskey brought back all the wrong memories.

Overcome by a sudden
unexpected desire for the liquor, he left the entrance and strode to a post in
the shadows. He licked his lips, shocked he could almost taste it. The scent.
The scent was thick in the air. He leaned on the post and turned his back to a
laughing, roughhousing group of cowboys marching past.

He wiped sweat from his
upper lip.
Lord, help me with this, please. I thought I was past it
 . . .

The Holy Spirit nudged
him and Logan spoke aloud, but softly, “In the name of Jesus, get thee behind
me, Satan.”

He clenched his jaw and
prayed for another moment, till the desperate feeling subsided and peace
flooded in. He would be all right. He could do this. Mary Jean needed him.

Strengthened, he
slipped into The Crystal Chandelier, stayed close to the wall, and worked his
way up to the end of the bar. The door to the theater was on his left, the
stairs to the second floor on his right. He looked away quickly from two young
girls sauntering down the staircase in nothing but the sheerest of covers and
black stockings.

Oh, God, how can they
live like this? How did
I
ever live like this? Help me
to find a way to put an end to Delilah’s business.

“Get you something?”
The bartender, a burly, unshaven fellow, pinned Logan with an impatient stare.

“Uh, not just yet.
Waitin’ for someone.” Scowling, the bartender moved to the man parked a few feet
down the wood. Logan tugged his hat a little lower and listened to the noise in
the saloon. Sounds that seemed as alien to him now as Chinese. Husky voices
arguing, laughing. Bottles clinking against glass, the rattle of poker chips,
chairs scraping across the floor . . . and underneath it, a
piano and a soft, clear voice.

Mary Jean.

Logan lifted his head
and looked over at a new pair of French doors that led into the theater. He
strained to hear and wondered why her voice sounded different. Less . . .
steady? Yes, there was a waver to it, as if she were . . .

Drunk?

His heartbeat picked
up. Sai Shang had been drugged. He’d learned that when they’d rescued her from
Rizzo’s. If Mary Jean was only going to sing, why drug her? His eyes shot to
the mirror and he searched the room behind him. He did not see Smith or that
black mountain of a man who went everywhere with Delilah.

They were in the
theater.

Certain of his next
move, he worked his way over to the wall, casual step by casual step. When the
doorknob was in easy reach, he turned it and slipped through to the other side.

They did not hear him
and he slid a few feet further down the wall into the shadows. Mary Jean stood
on the stage, Smith beside her, holding on to her arm. Still, she swayed
unsteadily. Dressed up and painted like one of Delilah’s gals, she was squeezed
into a daringly low-cut dress, and bright rouge dotted her cheeks. Her red lips
moved in song, but the words tumbled over each other.

The room was smaller
than the saloon, filled with only a dozen or so tables, lanterns glowing in the
center of each one. No customers yet. Overhead, chandeliers emitted a weak,
somber light. Footlights focused garish attention on the stage, where Smith
held onto Mary Jean.

Logan squeezed his
hands into tight fists. No matter what it took, he would get her off that
stage.

God forgive me
 . . .

Smith, his face yet
showing bruises, scowled down at Delilah who stood just behind the lights. “You
gave her too much. She ain’t gonna be able to sing a note.”

“Like that matters.
Just stand there and hold her up. The auction’ll go quick.” Delilah motioned to
the man watching from the corner of the stage. “Otis, get the cashbox. I’ll go
make the announcement about her.”

“No.” Logan stepped out
of the shadows, his hand drifting down to his gun. Smith and Delilah spun
toward the sound of his voice. Otis paused. Mary Jean’s eyes flickered with
weak recognition.

The fury searing Logan’s
brain made it hard to speak. “No auction.”

“Why you—” Smith shoved
Mary Jean to the ground and stomped to the edge of the stage.

Delilah stuck her hand
out, stopping him. She flushed beat red. Her lips curled into a sneer. “Can you
possibly have any idea how stupid it was to come here tonight?” Her breath
coming in short, angry gasps, she took two steps toward him. “Do you have any
idea how livid I am?” Her voice rose to an agitated screech. “You’ve taken
six
of my girls and now you have the
audacity
to think you can stop another
auction?”

“Yes.” Logan moved
toward her, speaking calmly, trying to hold his own anger in check. “Yes. And
yes. That girl ain’t leavin’ here tonight with anybody but me.”

A change came over
Delilah’s face. One moment spittle flew from her mouth, rage evident in her
sneer and clenched jaw, replaced suddenly by an eerily calm expression, as if a
resolve set with cement had settled somewhere in her dark heart.

“Then you’ll pay like
everybody else.” She picked up a full shot glass sitting on a nearby table and
walked it over to him. “One sip. One sip and I’ll let you have her.” She waved
it under his nose.

Logan felt the sweat
break out on his upper lip.

“Old Crow. Kentucky
Straight. Your favorite, if I recall.” She dipped her finger in the whiskey and
then dabbed it between her breasts like perfume. “How long since you had . . .
a drink?”

Delilah didn’t push.
She knew Logan would take the glass. His gaze darted to Mary Jean once, and
then he snatched the whiskey from her hand. Without hesitating, he tossed it
back. She heard Mary Jean gasp weakly.

Logan kept his eyes
shut for a moment. Savoring or fighting off the whiskey?

Rage writhed in Delilah’s
brain. He’d never made a sacrifice like that for her. “Otis, get her out of
here.”

Logan looked at Delilah.
His face still showed the bruises of his fight with McIntyre. “I should go too.”

She placed her hand
lightly on his arm. Her anger drained away. “Could you stay for a minute?”

He regarded her with
surprise, perhaps at her tone. It had surprised her as well.

“All right.”

Otis escorted the girl
out and Delilah poured herself a drink, but held it tauntingly close to Logan. “You
said if there was anything you could do to make amends to me, you’d do it.”

“I stand by that.” He
blinked, shook his head.

She moved in close,
pressing up against him. He inched back, but didn’t leave her. This hadn’t been
part of her original plan, but she hungered desperately for . . .
something real. She cast a sultry glance up at him. The drug was beginning to
hit him and she wanted him sober for this choice. Heart racing like a runaway
stallion, she licked her lips. “The price to get out of this room is either
this shot of whiskey . . . or one kiss.”

His brow twitched
slightly but he didn’t look down at the whiskey.

To Delilah’s horror,
tears pooled in her eyes. She blinked them away as she tore her gaze from him.
She had to look at anything but him. How could she, after all these years, feel
like this again? This wasn’t supposed to happen.

His hand caught her
cheek and turned her face to him. “I never did get to kiss you good-bye.” His
thumb stroked her jaw and he smiled. “Ah, there you are . . .
Victoria
.”

Logan pressed his lips
to hers. Delilah allowed herself to fall into the dream, the memory, of the
girl she once was. His warm lips and gentle touch almost moved her to tears. He
was tender, but hesitant. Was he afraid of himself or her?