A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (9 page)

Disturbed deep in his
soul, Logan ambled out of the saloon and stood once more in the muck. Looking
at his boots, he didn’t miss the symbolism. Men trudged past him, lunch pails
in their hands, suspicion and fear in their eyes. Some headed to the mine, some
to their claims. He drummed his fingers on his thigh and wondered what made
Delilah want to take a filthy, hardscrabble town like Defiance and turn it into
a Barbary Coast. Why make something bad
worse
? Selling virgins? What
kind of a person wanted to live like that?

A lost one.

The still, small Voice
reverberated in his soul like a thunderclap. Regardless of what Logan thought
about Delilah, if she died without knowing Christ, her choices would send her
to hell.

He looked over his
shoulder at Mary Jean, pouring a miner a glass of whiskey.

And who knows how many
with her.

The urgency to fight washed
over him, but so did the fear that he was outmatched and outgunned in this
town. Was he still vulnerable to an old weakness?
God, why do You think I
can go from settling livestock disputes between neighbors to fighting this kind
of debauchery? I’m not ready for this.

I can do all things
through Christ Who strengthens me.

The scripture didn’t
comfort him—only because he was being ornery. He wanted to whine. He walked on,
repeating the scripture slowly, savoring the words. “I can do all things
through Christ Who strengthens me.”

A man stumbled out of a
tent and tumbled into Logan. He caught the big fella before he landed in the
mud. “Whoa there, partner.”

Sweaty, bleary-eyed, rich
with the sweet, spicy scent of opium, the stranger swayed but nodded. Logan
ground his teeth at the ceaseless depravity going on around him. He had the
irrational urge to run and leave it all. Run back to his nice neighbors and
amateur sinners back in Willow.

The man’s eyes
narrowed, as if he couldn’t see clearly. Logan clutched his shoulders and
wrestled him to a steady, standing position, aware he was balancing the man on
one good leg. He recognized the stiffness in the other leg as an artificial
limb. After a moment, Logan carefully released him. “You all right?”

The man wobbled
precariously. Resigning himself, Logan grabbed the man’s beefy shoulder. “Here,
friend, let me help you get home.”

The confusion left the
drunk’s face and he straightened up. He peered at Logan through wild, dark hair,
then slapped his hand away. “I don’t need your help.”

Logan dipped his head
and backed off. Reminding himself he was definitely not in Willow anymore, he
extended his hand. “Good enough. But if you ever do, my friends call me
Preacher.”

The man’s graying brows
shot up. “A
preacher
? Or is that just some sort of nickname?”

“Well, it’s both I
reckon.” Logan did not withdraw his hand until the man brusquely staggered past
him. Undaunted that the friendly gesture had been rejected, Logan turned. “What
about you, friend? What do you go by?”

The man, big and wide
like a redwood, paused, hiked his pants a little higher, and pivoted back
around to Logan. It seemed he had regained some balance. “Wanted. In two states
and one territory.”

Logan had to bite back
the fact that he could double those numbers. He had to try, though, to get past
the ridiculously misplaced pride. “I’m sure you are. And you’re certainly
wanted at my church. I’ll be preachin’ this Sunday. Just come by the Broken
Spoke. From now on it’s the Cripple Creek Church.”

The man guffawed, long
and loud, a booming sound that even drowned out the thunder of hammers from
Delilah’s saloon and frightened a nearby mule. It brought a young Oriental girl
out from the tent the man had just exited. A group of men passing by slowed to
a stop, staring at the big man having a knee-slapping laugh. One of them wore a
bandage on his arm. Logan recognized him from the ruckus over Two Spears.
Smith
.

Distracted, he didn’t
see the punch coming from his possible new congregant until it was in his face.
He pulled back at the last second, but the hammer blow still sent him sprawling
into the side of the tent. For a moment he was sure the man had pierced his jaw
with a railroad spike, the pain was so intense.

His opponent’s laughter
died. “Preacher, they call me Big Jim Walker.” He flexed his big, meaty fingers.
“And the only way I’ll come to church is if you knock me clean unconscious and
set me in your front pew.”

Logan rotated his sore
jaw and straightened up, impressed with Big Jim’s right cross. Amputees could be
ornery, as so many felt they had to keep proving their manliness. Big Jim
packed a wallop, but it was nothing to brag about. “Unconscious, huh? I can do
that. But I believe you might enjoy the sermon more if you was to come
voluntarily.”

Big Jim’s jaw went slack
but a slight smile quickly curved his thick lips. “You knock me out, Preacher,
I’ll come to church. I’ll sit in your front pew. I might even wear a tie.”

The swelling crowd of men
chuckled. The little Oriental girl held her breath. Smith leaned forward a
hair. Why was he so interested?

Logan knew much was
riding on this situation. Would it be worth it? Would these people understand
and respect strength over simple words? By scrapping, could he convince them he
was a changed man? He didn’t see how. “I don’t think a preacher should fight.
Don’t seem . . . befitting.”

“You talk like a man
who has a choice.”

“Don’t I?”

“No.”

Logan rubbed his
pounding jaw. He wasn’t getting out of this. “A tie, huh? Well, I don’t give
much thought to how a man dresses, but I like your idea. Will you give me your
word?”

“What?”

“Give me your word that
if I land one punch, you’ll come to church in a tie.”

The crowd chuckled
again, louder this time. Big Jim suddenly looked unsure. His glance darted
around at the onlookers. Sanity came back quickly. With it, his swagger, and he
shook hair out of his eyes. “No, that ain’t exactly what I said.”

“Ah, if I knock you out
with one punch, you’ll sit in my front pew, and you’ll wear a tie?”

“With a fancy knot.”
Big Jim raised his fists.

Behind him, the man
from the livery shook his head, as if he knew this would be a fast fight, although
Logan, couldn’t tell who he was bettin’ on. “You’re not a welcher, are you?”

“Preacher, I ain’t
never welched on a bet in my life.”

“They say there’s a
first time for everything.”

“This ain’t it.”

The crowd had grown to
a sufficient size to advertise the outcome well. Logan took a breath, said a
prayer, and raised his own fists. “You’re sure I have to knock you out?”

In answer, Big Jim
swung, his arm coming round like an unstoppable sledgehammer. Logan leaned
back, let the fist whiz by, stepped in, and put everything he had into the
uppercut. He clocked Big Jim Walker in the precise center of his chin.

Big Jim’s expression
never even changed, but he tumbled backward just like a California redwood:
slow, forceful, stunning in the sheer magnificence of the fall. He hit the
ground with a corpse-like thud.

The crowd stared at Big
Jim lying in the dirt. Logan rubbed his knuckles. “I expect to see you all Sunday
morning. Ten o’clock sharp. Drunk. Sober. Doesn’t matter to me or the Lord.
Just come.”

He let that sink in.
After all, he had been tighter than Dick’s hatband when the Lord had found him
at that tent revival in Denver.
[4]
God was no respecter of whiskey, wine, or water. And Logan knew firsthand that the
Lord’s grip was stronger than the temptation of even the finest whiskey.

He marched off, the
crowd’s thunderstruck gaze burning into his back.

Rebecca didn’t even
have to look up from her notepad. She heard the door and almost instantly
smelled the cloying perfume. In Defiance, only one kind of woman smelled like
that. She took a breath and turned to the woman striding toward her.

A tight, red satin
dress, the wrong shade to go with her auburn hair, proved Rebecca’s suspicions.
Even if the low neckline hadn’t spelled it out, the heavy rouge and red lips
would have. What a shame. The woman was pretty. She didn’t need the face paint.

“Good afternoon.” The
woman stuck out a red-gloved hand.

Rebecca rose and the
two women shook. “Good afternoon. May I help you?”

“I’d like to take out
an ad in your newspaper.”

The thrill of running a
business clashed with Rebecca’s dread over just what this woman might want to
advertise. “Um, all right.” Rebecca retrieved the notepad and pencil from her
desk. “The rate is one cent per word.”

The woman’s eyes
glittered. “That seems more than fair.” She turned and strode to the window.
Watching the traffic, she adjusted her dress, actually tugging her shirtwaist
lower. “Opening in two weeks . . . the newest saloon . . .
stage . . .” she spoke slowly, “and sporting house . . .
from Delilah Goodnight.” She tossed a dismissive glance at Rebecca. “My name
should be in all capitals.” She paused for a moment then continued. “The Crystal
Chandelier . . . live performances of audacious acts . . .
girls of the highest quality . . . willing to fulfill . . .
any desire.”

Rebecca’s hand moved
slower and slower.

“Fresh Flowers . . .
coming . . . Saturday nights only.”

Rebecca slapped the pencil
down, livid. “You expect me to advertise your . . . your . . .”

“Bawdy house?” Delilah
turned around slowly. “Brothel?” She dropped a hand on her hip and sauntered
over to Rebecca. “Honey, the place I’ll be running . . . those
words don’t even. Come. Close. I’m going to make the Iron Horse look like a
monastery.”

Rebecca clenched her
jaw, buying a moment to think before speaking. “It’s closed. The other saloons—brothels—
were
on their way out. Defiance is becoming civilized. You can’t open another place . . .”

“
Can
and
will
.
You can take my money to advertise it, or I’ll just do it the old-fashioned
way. Parade it.”

Rebecca shuddered to
think what that meant, but she couldn’t run an ad for this Crystal Chandelier.
Her paper had standards. As did she. “I won’t take your money.”

“Fine.” Delilah spun in
a swirl of crimson silk and headed to the door. She reached for the doorknob,
but spared Rebecca one last comment. “You newspaper people. Always so
self-righteous when it suits you. I noticed you veiled your preacher’s
background. Well, I’ll be sure to give you something to write about and you can
tell the whole story.”

Speechless, Rebecca
merely stared as the woman let herself out and strolled down the street like a
bored panther.

“Now there’s a bonny
lass. Who was that?”

Ian’s Scottish burr
sounded strange, dreamy almost, as he walked in carrying a ream of paper. He
leaned his head to the left, watching Delilah. Rebecca scowled at him. “Another
madam has moved into town.”

Ian snapped his mouth
shut. Yes, he’d been gawking and Rebecca wanted to throttle him. The gray in
his thinning hair and thick beard belied her husband’s wisdom, as had his
leering. He quickly stepped over to her and took her hand. Grinning, he pulled
it to his chest, hazel eyes stealing her heart all over again.

“Women like that, my lovely
wife, are not worth the rouge they’re painted with. Forgive me for staring? She
was rather . . .” he cleared his throat, “uhh, shapely. A man of
my age can appreciate beauty. And may I emphasize that
appreciation
is
quite a different thing from lust.”

Rebecca had to giggle,
eager to let some of her anger drain away. “Appreciate away. Just don’t touch.”

“Tell me, what was she
doin’ here? Another dove looking for Charles?”

“Worse. She wanted to
buy an ad. To advertise her new . . . brothel.”