A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (30 page)

She hooked her arm
around his neck and kissed him harder. He fought for a moment . . .then
surrendered. He embraced her, drew her against him, and deepened the kiss. A
groan escaped him, and Delilah could have fainted. Her heart pounded, she felt
lightheaded, on the verge of floating away. No one, no one had ever made her
feel like this except Logan. Like she was home.

“Victoria,” he
whispered against her throat. “Victoria.” He kissed her neck. “I can’t do this.”
She heard his anguish, the war in his heart. “You know I can’t.”

She couldn’t let him
leave. Loathing her desperation, she brought the drink to his lips.

One of the last things
McIntyre ever wanted to hear was ‘the preacher has gone crazy
.
’ Yet
somehow he was not entirely surprised by the news Emilio delivered.

Now the two of them
galloped in the dark, hell-bent-for-leather to The Crystal Chandelier to try to
stop whatever self-destructive bent Logan was on. McIntyre suspected the man had
received more than a little nudge from Delilah.

He wished they could go
faster, but the fight with Logan had taken McIntyre’s edge. He wouldn’t be his
old self for several more days, he feared. Sore muscles and scabs had a way of slowing
a man down.

They reined up in front
of the saloon. A crowd had gathered outside, looking in through broken windows.
McIntyre could hear Logan inside raging and bellowing, and glass shattering.
Then gunfire. Someone inside yelped and everyone outside hunkered down in unison.
After a moment, well aware the danger had not passed, McIntyre and Emilio
shouldered their way into the saloon.

Much of the place was
in shambles. Merely cosmetic, McIntyre knew from experience. Righting tables
and putting chairs back would go a long way toward restoration. Up near the
bar, though, three tables and several chairs were smashed to smithereens. One
man lay dead or unconscious on the floor among the shards of wood and poker
chips, a revolver in his right hand.

Logan staggered
drunkenly back and forth on top of the bar, ranting at something in the corner.
Wildly agitated, he waved a bottle of Kentucky Bourbon overhead and held a
revolver in his other hand. His red plaid shirt hung open, flapping around his
waist as he stomped drunkenly down the wood. McIntyre followed the preacher’s
gaze to the corner.

Smith was splayed out
against the far wall, and bullet holes riddled the wood around him . . .
in a clear outline. The man’s courage had been shot to pieces along with the
paneling. Face white as January snow, he sported a dark stain down his pants
leg that ended in a puddle on the floor.

McIntyre took a deep
breath and moved within a few feet of the bar. “Logan.”

The preacher snapped
his head around, then slowly spun his body, but with all the grace of a sick
chicken. He grinned, his head bobbing as if it were too much for his shoulders.
“McIntyre . . . you’re just in time to join me in a little
shooting.” Logan pointed his gun at Smith and fired, without even looking at
the hapless target. The shot went wide, but Smith warbled out a pathetic squeak
just the same.

“Logan!” McIntyre
hollered in a firmer voice, stepping to the bar, “put that gun down before you
kill someone.”

“Too late.” His eyes
darted to the man on the floor. The expression of hapless confusion fled. A
thundercloud darkened Logan’s face, and he swallowed. “What’d you come here
for? To gloat? Get a gander at your preacher fallin’-down drunk?”

“I am not here to
gloat, Logan. You are my friend. I have come to help you.”

“You can’t help me,” he
spat. He waved the gun around and yelled at the empty saloon. “Nobody can help
me!” He pointed at the man on the floor. “Look what I’ve done!”

McIntyre peered closer.
Shelby lay sprawled among the shattered furniture, dead as a doornail. “This
is
quite the situation and it will have consequences. It is not, however, the end
of the world.”

“
Situation
?”
Logan’s voice sounded strangled, on the verge of breaking. “I stuck a stick of
dynamite square into the center of my life and lit it.”

McIntyre sighed at the
mess Logan had created here, a dead man on the floor, a live coward up against
the wall. “Smith, why don’t you get out? Go clean yourself up.”

“No,” Logan pointed his
gun at his victim as he glared down at McIntyre. “I ain’t done with him. He
killed Big Jim. He killed your doctor. You know he was about to cut your son
into little pieces when I met him? Instead, your son got a piece of him.”
Laughing, Logan fired and took a chunk of wall out not three inches from Smith’s
head. The man’s chest started pumping as if all the air had gone bad.

“Logan!” McIntyre didn’t
know if he carried any sway with the preacher, but he could try. “You have
humiliated him enough. For God’s sake, the man has wet his breeches. Make him
walk out the front door, but be done with him.” Logan paused and McIntyre
prayed he was getting through. “This is no way to serve God.”

Logan worked his jaw
back and forth, pondering. Calculating? He lowered his gun. Smith didn’t
hesitate. He dashed for the door, tossing a chair out of his way as he ran. He
left the front door open and laughter flowed into the saloon. Emilio quietly
closed the door again.

“Now give me your gun.”
McIntyre extended his hand. “Let’s get you out of here.”

“What for?”

“We’ll get you sobered
up, back in your right mind. Get this squared away with the marshal.”

“He drew first.” Logan
stared at Shelby lying on the floor. “Smith faked with his shoulder. Shelby
thought he was drawing on me and went for it.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if
he couldn’t stand the memory. “I can’t serve God anymore. There’s not a sin I
haven’t put my hand to tonight.”

“Whatever has
transpired here, the blame is not solely on you.”

Logan shook his head,
in a wobbly, exaggerated manner, and sat down on the bar, his legs hanging over
the edge. “Doesn’t matter.” He rubbed his eyes—to hide tears? “Gone too far.
God won’t forgive me.”

“No matter what you’ve
done, there is grace. You know that.”

Logan erupted. “A
preacher, a man of
God
cannot act like this!” He jumped to the floor and
pointed the gun at McIntyre. “I turned my back on Him for a shot of whiskey . . .”
his voice softened, “and a woman.” The tenderness betrayed his heart. “How
pitiful is that?”

McIntyre wasn’t
inclined to discuss it looking down the barrel of a Peacemaker. He knocked the
gun out of Logan’s hand. For a moment, the two tussled, but McIntyre managed to
get hold of the man’s lapels and slam him against the bar a few times. “Stop
this,” he commanded. “Stop it.” Some of the fight went out of Logan and the men
locked gazes. “You haven’t done anything He can’t forgive. I would know.” Jaw
clenched in fury, he slammed him against the wood one last time. “
I
would know.” He waited for some light to dawn in Logan’s eyes, some hope. Logan
merely pushed him away and sank to the floor.

McIntyre let out a
breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and pinched the bridge of his nose
.
God, help him know You have not abandoned him
 . . .
no
matter what he’s done.

Or perhaps I should
pray he does not abandon You?

He looked up at the
ceiling and motion on the stairs caught his eye. Delilah clutched her evening
wrap closed over her bosom as her venomous gaze bore down on him. One bare leg
stayed exposed. Had she used every weakness to which Logan was vulnerable?

McIntyre wanted to
strangle her. “Satisfied now?”

She looked at Logan.
Crumpled on the floor. Broken. Drunk.

Delilah merely turned
and disappeared down the dark hallway.

“Will you bring
charges?”

Beckwith stepped away
from the curtain separating Logan’s quarters from the sanctuary. “I don’t know.”
He slipped his hat on. “Witnesses said he didn’t start the fight. Smith and
Shelby did. He was just protecting himself. If that holds, then it ain’t
murder. I’ll let you know.” He stomped down the aisle and out the front door,
the thud of his boots almost ominous in the pre-dawn quiet.

McIntyre moved the
curtain aside and peered at Mary Jean, sitting on the cot with the preacher,
wiping his brow with tenderness. If he woke up and saw her, maybe things wouldn’t
look so grim.

Logan had done his
witness as a preacher great harm. Maybe irreparable harm. Defiance wasn’t full
of the most forgiving citizens. The town was especially hard on hypocrites.
McIntyre didn’t want to judge the man—

So he wouldn’t. He’d
stop right there.

He would pray for his
friend. McIntyre had slipped once. Into the arms of another woman. He would
remember the pain, the anguish, the shame forever. If Logan felt half that bad,
then he at least hadn’t abandoned God entirely.

Even before he opened
his eyes, Logan felt the weight, the warmth on his chest. It constricted his
breathing. He raised his hand and touched . . . hair.

Delilah?

His eyes popped open
and the morning light exploded in his eyeballs like shards of glass. He groaned
and dropped his head back to the cot. Whatever—whoever—was on him, could wait.

Hungover.

His spirits plummeted
as it all came back to him. Delilah and the whiskey. He’d had no choice. Run
and leave Mary Jean, or take the drink and save her.

But he’d lost his soul
in the process. His throat constricted with scorching sorrow. The flashes of
Delilah’s skin, the sweetness of her, her passion . . . so long
since he’d been with a woman . . . a hundred years since he’d
been with the one he loved. If only it hadn’t happened like that, outside of marriage,
himself soused with whiskey. He’d cheapened it. And Delilah.

A frenzy of rabid, wild
memories assailed him. Somehow he’d made it downstairs. He recalled Smith and
the other man . . . Shelby. Running their mouths.

He dropped his forearm
over his eyes, blocking the light, wishing he could hold back the images just
as easily.
God, what have done . . .?

The body on him
stirred, lifted. “She drugged you. That’s why you feel so bad.”

Mary Jean?
He dropped his arm and looked at her. She was still in the gown she’d had on
last night, but she’d washed her face. She was tired, but innocence had
returned to her eyes. He’d lost so much to save her. Would she be worth it?

“I know you had a
choice. And I know what it cost you.” She wrung a rag out in the basin beside
his bed and laid the damp cloth on his head. “Thank you.”