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

He could pass for an
ordinary man . . . unless one looked at his marred knuckles and
noted the scar hiding on his stubbly chin. Hints that belied darker days. “What
interests you about the Broken Spoke?”

“Well, Mr. McIntyre,”
Logan fanned himself with his worn, tan Stetson, “I need a house of worship.”

McIntyre tugged the
brim of his hat lower to block the late afternoon sun and strolled down the
busy boardwalk on Main Street. Beside him, Logan sidestepped a miner and
continued with his story. “After years of cowboyin’ and workin’ as a hired gun—whichever
paid more—I hit Denver between jobs. Not a penny to my name. Hungry and hungover.
Nursing a busted hand. A young girl gave me a hand-bill inviting
sinners
to a tent meeting.”

McIntyre nodded a
greeting to several passers-by, slapping Bob Jamison on the shoulder as they
worked their way toward the livery. Not really distracted by the pleasantries,
he quickly returned his attention to Logan.

“I went because they
were serving stew.” The preacher gave him a quick, crooked smile. “But I left
with a whole lot more than a full stomach.” He shrugged sheepishly. “Anyway,
Preacher Beals took me in, fed me, clothed me, taught me. He and his family
were a Godsend. I started helping him in church then I started preachin’—”

“Preaching?” McIntyre
repeated, incredulous over this change in the young man who could have been
more notorious than Billy the Kid or Jesse James if he’d continued on that
path.

“Yes—me—preaching. When
a church opened up in Kansas I took it. Only thing was, I
knew
I was
supposed to come back here. I just didn’t want to.”

As they strolled, McIntyre
laced his hands behind his back and tried to comprehend the momentous changes
in his own life, much less Logan’s. Would wonders never cease? And how many
times had they prayed for a preacher over the last several months? But Logan?
He was the last man on earth McIntyre would have expected here.

Of course, as of late,
God had been busy twisting expectations. “Well, I have as startling a
revelation for you as you have had for me. I too am a Believer.”

Logan’s head snapped
around. Gawking, he nearly walked into a post, but caught himself at the last
second. McIntyre grinned, stepped off the boardwalk, and crossed over to the
construction site that was his wife’s hotel. Rising from the ashes, the second story
was nearly framed in. He was pleased with the process.

He pulled a cheroot
from his pocket and pointed at the work in progress. “That was our hotel, or
more precisely, my wife and her sisters’, but it burned. It won’t be ready for
another month or so. I do have room for you, however, at the Iron Horse,” he grinned
at Logan, “which is really more of a boarding house now. And the town hall. And
a newspaper office. You are more than welcome to stay there as long as you
need.”

Logan stuck a finger in
his ear and twisted it. “I’m not sure I heard you back there.”

“You did.” A smile
twitched on McIntyre’s lips as he lit the cheroot and tossed away the match. “You
are not anymore shocked than I still am.”

“Well, I’ll
be . . .” Logan faded off, shook his head in apparent amazement.
“The Lord certainly does work in mysterious ways.”
[2]

“And sometimes, He
spells it out.” Not willing to elaborate on the myriad ways God had changed a
sinner into something closer to a saint, McIntyre squeezed Logan’s shoulder. “Get
your belongings. Come back to the town hall. I’ll leave word for my
sister-in-law to show you to a room.”

“You’re
married
?”
Logan’s voice rose to a falsetto.

McIntyre had to laugh. “Happily
so.” He wondered how many more surprises Logan could take in a day. “You can
meet her at dinner tonight. In the meantime, I am supposed to be looking for my
son.” Logan opened his mouth and McIntyre raised a hand, cutting him off. “Don’t
ask. Get settled. I’ll see you this evening.”

He strode past Logan,
but the man followed. “Wait. I think there’s something you need to know.”

McIntyre drew up.

“A woman named Delilah
stopped by the Broken Spoke while I was there. She wants to buy it.”

“Yes, she has bought
several properties in town this week.”

“I don’t reckon I need
to ask if you know her.”

McIntyre felt the
tension in his brow. “Everyone knows Delilah.”

“She said she’s here to
put Defiance back on the map.”

McIntyre puffed on the
cigar and thought back to his past. The days before Naomi and Christ had come to
Defiance. The days when bedding a prostitute, drinking whiskey, and killing men
to maintain his power had been his lifeblood. He wouldn’t go back to that.
Ever
.
He lived in the Light now, and the thought of falling into that darkness again
was truly terrifying. He didn’t want to test the limits of God’s grace.

“Back on the map?” he
repeated. That was possible for the town. There were still so many men here
living in
defiance
of the Light. Plenty of fodder for Delilah’s ravenous
appetite. Could he stand by and do nothing to stop the woman? Was it even any
of his business? He was certainly no one’s nanny. Besides, Defiance had a
preacher now. Wouldn’t this be his bailiwick? “It is interesting to me that, while
Satan has seen fit to send his mistress here,” he narrowed his gaze at Logan, “God
has sent you.”

Logan’s brow creased at
the observation. “I noticed that too. You know, when I first started preachin’
in Denver, I wasn’t afraid to wrangle an unruly drunk right on out to the
sidewalk. But how do you handle a woman . . .?”

“Knowing Delilah? Like
an unchained demon.”

Logan pulled his saddle
bags off his big bay mare and slung them over the corral’s rail. Unstrapping
the saddle, he called to an old codger brushing down a sorrel. “Hey, young
fella, you got room to keep my saddle here?”

The elderly gentleman
chuckled as he pulled a curry comb down the animal. “Tack room ‘sat the end of
the barn. There’s one pole open.” He tossed up a hand. “But I ain’t responsible
for stolen property.”

“I’ll risk it.”
At least
until I have room to store it someplace else.
“Thank you.”

Logan lugged the saddle
back into the barn, found the tack room, and hoisted the saddle up on the rack,
beneath two others. He was admiring a Mexican-style saddle bedecked with silver
conchos when he heard a sort of strangled cry or growl.

Concerned, he spun
towards the sound. He heard it again from outside the barn, clearer this time.
A child’s cry? Followed by the unmistakable deep, throaty laughter of men. He
launched from the tack room, raced through the barn’s back doors, and skidded
to a stop near the corral. He scanned the barnyard but saw only milling horses
and the old man. “Did you hear something?”

“Hear what?”

The sound again, louder
and clearer. A child raging, screaming against something . . .or
someone. “That.” Logan ran toward a row of sage and cedars. He burst out
unexpectedly on the shore of the Animas River. Two men were holding a child
between them, and they froze as if they’d been
caught
taking the whole cookie jar
.

“What are you two doing
to that boy?” Logan asked, marching toward them. “Let him go.”

The two men exchanged mulish
glances. One raised a big Bowie knife. The other tightened his grip on the boy
and said, “This is none of your affair, mister.”

Logan knew this man was
the dangerous one. He had dark eyes, one that wandered off hard to the right, a
mess of greasy, curly hair, and a sneer that openly promised trouble.

“Get on outta of here
before Shelby decides to carve you up next.”

The child, a young
Indian boy, squirmed like an angry rattlesnake. Fury radiated from him. No
fear. Just hate. He speared Logan with a searing gaze that said he didn’t
expect help, only more torture.

Lord, what can I do here?
“You’d best let him go.”

“The little savage
tried to steal my horse.” The man with the knife nicked the boy’s cheek,
drawing blood.

“Hey now,” Logan
stepped forward, fearful things were about to turn sour. “That’s not gonna
happen again.”

“He’s just a filthy
redskin,” the man with the crazy eye said, flinging a dirty strand of hair out
of his face. “
And
he’s a thief.”

“Then you should get
the marshal,” Logan said to him, but then switched back to the man with the
knife, “but you’re not going to hurt him again.”

The man grinned,
revealing a row of yellowed, misshapen teeth. “We’ll deal with you afterward.”
He lowered the knife to the boy’s face.

“This is no way to
build a flock,” Logan muttered, resigned to the trouble coming down the pike.

Both men gawked. “Flock?”
the one with the knife repeated. “You a preacher?”

“I am. And I want to be
a man of peace. Let the boy go.”

Laughter started in the
two troublemakers, low and slow, and bubbled its way up to full-throated
hee-hawing. Logan sighed. It would be too easy to slide the .45 from its
holster . . . especially since the man without the knife was as
big as an oak. Why bother with a fight. It would be no trouble at all to just
drop him. But he couldn’t, of course. Not like that.

Slay the giant, David.

The thought puzzled him
at first then the idea lifted the corner of his mouth.

Logan reached down,
snatched up a river rock the size of his fist, and lobbed it at the man’s head.
The stone beaned him right between the eyes. His face went blank, the knife
slid from his fingers, and he folded to the ground.

Instantly, the boy
grabbed the weapon and swiped with the blade, cutting the other man’s forearm.
Logan lunged as the bully howled. He snatched the knife away, and at the same
moment used his leg to sweep the boy’s feet out from under him. He landed on
his back with a gravel-crunching thud.

“Stay down.” Logan
placed a foot on the boy’s chest and pointed the knife at the bleeding man who
instantly raised his hands high. Blood ran down his arm, dripping from his
elbow. It evoked no sympathy from Logan. “You, get your friend and get outta
here.”

The man lowered his
hands a little, an uncertain expression on his face . . . but
suddenly he snapped his fingers with recognition. “I know you. You’re Logan
Tillane.” Loathing tinged with fear crept into his expression. “I thought you
was dead.”

And it would be better
if most folks thought that.
“Logan Tillane is dead.”

The man shook his head,
disagreeing. “I was standing right there when you drew on that marshal in
Wichita. I ain’t never
seen
a hand that fast. I—”

“Listen to me,” Logan
took a step toward him, gritting his teeth. “Logan Tillane
is
dead.” He
hated to do this but he lowered his hand, let it hover over his gun. A clear
warning. “Do you understand me?”

“Yeah,” he sounded
thoughtful. “Sure. I won’t breathe a word.”

Logan ran the hand with
the knife over his mouth, wondering how God expected him to build a church here
when his old reputation still hung on him like the stink from a polecat. “Get
your friend outta here.”

The man hesitated. “Are
you really a pre—?” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe the
impossible. “Nah, it ain’t so.” He grinned and backed away. “But I won’t say a
thing.”

Logan knew he was
lying. The news was too big for a little brain like that. By nightfall, word
would be all over Defiance that a gunslinger had come to town calling himself a
preacher. Eventually, he would have to prove it. Gunslinger or Man of God.

“Two Spears,” a thick,
Hispanic voice called. “What have you done now?”

Convinced the trouble
with the two rowdies was finished, Logan dropped the knife and acknowledged a
tall, dark-skinned boy hurrying toward them. “You know this young ’un, son?”

“
Si
.” The kid
pushed some strands of black shoulder-length hair behind his ear and reached
for Two Spears.

Gaining his feet, the
boy squirmed and tried to kick his captor. “Let me go, Emilio!”

“I will not. Mr.
McIntyre told me to find you . . .
again
.”

Logan didn’t miss the
resigned tone draped under the heavy accent. And this little troublemaker was
McIntyre’s son. “Not his first rodeo, huh?”

“First ro—?” Emilio
frowned, then nodded when understanding dawned. “Oh.
Si
, and I do not
think it will be his last. He hates it here among the white men.”

Logan glanced over at
the two troublemakers half-staggering, half-marching toward Main Street, one
rubbing an impressive goose-egg on his forehead, the other leaving a trail of
red droplets. “Reckon I can understand that, if all the neighbors are as
friendly as those two.”

Logan then sized up the
two boys. Two Spears was wearing dungarees, new boots, and a plaid shirt, but
his hair—straight, and black as crow’s wings—touched his collar. He wore pure
hate in his eyes, so palpable Logan could feel the burn of it.

Emilio was similarly
dressed. A strapping young man, verging on twenty or so and probably Mexican.
Temperance and wisdom lived in his dark, steady gaze. Thankfully.

Eager to snuff the
tension, Logan offered his hand first to Two Spears. The boy only glared.
Shrugging, Logan moved to Emilio. “Folks call me Preacher.”

The Mexican kid’s eyes
widened like full moons. “Well, I hope you’re tough,
señor
. That man,”
he chucked a thumb at the two blowhards, “The one who is bleeding, his name is
Smith. He spends more time in jail than out. He likes to fight.”

“He’s gonna be
disappointed. The only fightin’ I do now is on my knees.”

Emilio’s face hardened,
as if he didn’t appreciate the bravado. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Emilio pulled an
uncooperative Two Spears up on the saddle in front of him and backed Matilda
away from the hitching rail. “I am tired of having to find you every other day.”

The boy crossed his
arms and huffed. Stoic silence met Emilio’s comment. He wondered half-seriously
if Señora Naomi would be angry if he spanked the boy. “That’s what you need,”
he muttered, steering the horse into the flow of traffic. “My sister used to
beat me and I would not wish that on you. But a
spanking
—I think much
can be learned from a good spanking.”

Emilio caught a glimpse
of Smith and his friend, Shelby, staggering through the crowd on the boardwalk.
Headed for Doc’s. Again. He would worry about Hannah, except he knew Doc was
there. Doc was a tough old rooster.

He looked down at the
top of Two Spears’s head. “You are fortunate that preacher came along when he
did. Those two white men are very dangerous. They would kill you just as soon
as look at you. Stay away from them.”

“I am not afraid of any
white man.”

Two Spears didn’t speak
often, but when he did it was more of this nonsense. Emilio rolled his eyes. “You
are foolish. Those two hung me from a lamppost one night, with my head in a
trough. I nearly drowned. They will kill you for sport.”

Two Spears seemed to
find that interesting and loosened his arms a little. “Why didn’t you?”

“What? Drown?” Emilio
shifted in the saddle, uncomfortable with the answer. “Your
father . . .he made them stop.”

Ordered to
cut the rope, Shelby had unceremoniously dropped Emilio on his head. As he rose
up out of the water, sputtering and coughing, he heard the gunshot, saw Shelby
scrambling away into the shadows, dragging a game leg . . .and
Mr. McIntyre pressing a .44 to Smith’s head. Scared stupid, Emilio tumbled out
of the trough and ran like a scalded dog. The second gunshot echoed down the
alley after him.

He was surprised to
learn the next day that Smith was
not
dead. Like Shelby, though, he had
a limp.  

Both men had been shot
in the leg as a warning. Emilio remembered being certain these men had lived
simply because Mr. McIntyre had been in a good mood. 

Since then, God had
done a lot of work in his
patrón
, and Emilio often marveled over the
changes. As violent, as brutal as Mr. McIntyre had been, he was a good man now,
striving to be even more so.

And Emilio wanted to be
just like him. “Give Mr. McIntyre a chance, Two Spears. He is brave, and would
die for the ones he loves. I know. I’ve seen it.”

“He does not love me.
He does not even want me here.”

“If you would stay put,
perhaps he would change his mind.”

Hannah Frink poured a
dab of peppermint oil into a metal spoon and held it out for Doc. The older man
was lying on the bed, eyes closed, cheeks flushed, which made his shock of
unruly blond hair seem brighter, more the color of dry hay. The spider veins
around his nose had spread and his abdomen seemed to protrude. Yet, he kept
resting his hand on his chest.

“Here, Doc, take this.”

The grizzled physician’s
eyes flew open. He cleared his throat and sat up. Swinging his legs off the
bed, he paused to adjust his spectacles. “Oh . . . I, uh,” he
cleared his throat again, “reckon I dozed off.”

Hannah raised the
spoon. “I saw you touching your chest. More indigestion?”

Doc took the spoon and
downed the medicine. “Just a touch.” He tapped the utensil on his leg and
stared at the floor. Hannah had the feeling he wanted to say something, but
couldn’t find the words.

She tried to help. “Doc,
is everything Okay? Do you feel all right?”

He slapped his thighs
and stood. “Right as rain. Just slowin’ down a little, is all. I’m entitled, I
reckon, at sixty-four.”

He strode out of the
room with a stiff limp. Hannah grabbed the bottle of oil off the night stand.
As she followed him, the front door flew open and two rough-looking characters
stumbled in. Shirts half-tucked, torn breeches, holey boots, Hannah assumed
they were homeless beggars. The goose egg in the middle of one man’s forehead
and the rivulets of blood running down the other’s arm told a familiar story.

“Doc,” the man with the
goose egg said, “My pard Smith here’s been cut. Need to get him fixed up.”

Hannah grabbed a towel
from a stack on the counter and raced to Smith. “Gracious, get that arm up
before you bleed out all over our floor.”

He gazed at her with
suspicion, amplified by the wandering eye, but grunted and gave her his arm.
She wrapped it quickly and she and Doc led him over to a metal table. She resisted
the desire to wipe her hands on her skirt after they’d helped him settle on the
table. The man’s shirt was filthy and he smelled like moldy cabbage. His dark
brown hair was tangled and greasy, making her wonder why a bath was so hard to
come by for some people. His friend, watching her from the window, hadn’t put
much stock in personal hygiene, either.

Hannah grabbed another
towel and commenced wiping the floor. The second man tucked strands of dirty
blond hair behind his ear and watched her, a lecherous grin spreading on his
stubbly, pockmarked face.

“Hmmm, somebody got you
good,” Doc muttered, examining Smith. “Missed the tendon, thank God.” Doc
strode over to the counter to gather up supplies.

“Yeah, a little
half-breed tried to steal Shelby’s horse.” Smith punctuated the accusation with
a curse.

Doc’s rummaging for
bandages and alcohol slowed a hair. Hannah carried the bloodstained towel to
the sink and they exchanged a quick, but knowing glance. She poured alcohol
over her forearms and hands, faster than washing, and used a towel to pull open
a drawer. From inside, she grabbed a roll of surgical thread and a box of
needles.

“Here.” Doc laid a
thick patch of gauze on the man’s wound. “Press down firmly.”

The man obliged as she
and Doc placed needles, a bottle of alcohol, scissors, gauze strips and
squares, and thread on a metal tray.

Beside them, the
patient grumbled on. “I was gonna skin him good, when some fella intervened.
Distracted me, and the redskin cut me. But I’ll settle up . . .with
both of ’em.”

Praying the man was not
talking about Two Spears, Hannah set the tray on the examination table as Doc
slowly peeled back the gauze. Fresh blood sparkled on the cloth, but the wound
had mostly stopped flowing.

With the confidence of
years of practice, Doc wiped away the blood and cleaned the wound. Smith hissed
out a breath as the alcohol touched the tender flesh. Hannah pursed her lips,
knowing full well Doc could be more gentle if he so desired. She gauged the
length of the wound, four or so inches, cut the necessary amount of string, and
threaded it through a needle.