A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (10 page)

“I see.” He rubbed his
chin. “I was hoping the brothels would be closing, all of them.”

Rebecca picked up her
pencil again. “She knows our preacher. She accused me of lying about his . . .
background.”

Ian lifted a brow. “And
this bothers ye because . . .?”

“Because she’s right.
When we started this paper we said we’d print the truth. No agendas, and, yet,
in our first issue I tell a story in such a way as to hide certain facts.”

He squeezed her hand. “I
doubt it will be the last time, Rebecca, that we’ve to make such decisions. Can
ye truly print the unvarnished truth? I don’t think it’s in a mon’s nature.”

“I thought it was in
mine.”

McIntyre peeled off his
coat and folded it over his arm. The noonday sun was welcome if a little too
warm. He stepped into the shade of the assayer’s building and continued
studying the progress on the hotel’s construction.

A crew installed cedar
shingles on the roof and one man stood on the balcony, painting the windows.
The rhythm of hammers from the roofers and saws from carpenters inside barely
rose above the clatter of street traffic. Sounds of progress. Another few weeks
and the Trinity Inn would be ready for business once again.

Hopefully this time they
could keep it safe. The image of the hotel in smoking ruins hit him hard,
reminding him of the moment Ian had implied Naomi was dead, lost in the fire. A
chill crept over him and he thought to chase it away by smoking a cheroot. He
lit the cigar and stared at the match’s flame for a moment, amazed at the
changes in his life. In his town.

“McIntyre.”

He tossed the match and
greeted Logan with a nod. “Preacher. What can I do for you?”

A deep crease in the
man’s brow and taut expression said plenty. “What’s the law like in this town?”

McIntyre exhaled a puff
of smoke. “Pender Beckwith is a fine, brave marshal. I feel we are fortunate to
have him. He has done quite a bit to rein in the town. Does that answer your
question?”

“I’m not sure. How much
policing does he do in Tent Town?”

“What are you after?”

“Of all the things that
went on in the Iron Horse, did you have limits?”

Naked limbs entwined
like snakes writhed in McIntyre’s brain, and he pushed the image away. “Not
many, to be honest.” No sense sugarcoating it. Logan most likely remembered
anyhow. “Where is this line of questioning going?”

“You know Delilah has a
reputation for …”

“Debauchery even I
wouldn’t sink to.”

“Yep. She’s gonna be
selling virgins.”

“Aye, that’s not all.”
Both men turned at Ian’s voice. “Delilah came by the paper wanting to place an
ad. Rebecca turned her away. The place this woman is opening is nothin’ short
of Nero’s circus.” He handed McIntyre a piece of paper. “Read that.”

McIntyre scanned the
note in Rebecca’s handwriting. His disgust grew with each word. “Crystal
Chandelier . . . live performances . . . audacious
acts . . . fulfill any desire.” The final sentence hit him
hardest of all. “Fresh, sweet Flowers available Saturday nights only.” He’d
been tempted many times, but in the end had stayed away from inexperienced
girls. He’d held on to at least a
morsel
of
honor. Delilah’s depravity sliced him to the core. He felt too much of a
kinship with the woman, like inbred cousins.

Logan inched closer and
lowered his voice. “She’s taking bids now. It’s a silent auction. “He removed
his hat and ran a hand through his sweaty, ash-blond hair. “We have to stop
this.”

McIntyre handed the
note back to Ian and took a thoughtful puff on the cheroot. He lamented the
loss of information that used to stream regularly into the Iron Horse. He had
not known about this circus and had to learn of it from Rebecca and Ian, of all
people.

What kind of live acts?
He shuddered to think. Delilah had a reputation for purposely shocking patrons
and appealing to their most base, most degenerate lusts. Her saloons had been
called Gates to Hell.

And men had stormed
them eagerly.

Auctioning virgins was
a new low, however, even for her. She could go lower, he knew. Given the chance,
she would, and gladly take Defiance with her. Those live shows were her calling
card and they had no boundaries.

The old McIntyre wouldn’t
have had any qualms about strong-arming Delilah right out of town, or taking The
Crystal Chandelier in a crooked poker game. This new McIntyre had to find a
different path.

“Preacher, let’s you
and me go see Beckwith. Ian, do you think you could find Corky? Ask him to wait
for me at the town hall.”

McIntyre leaned against
the doorway of the marshal’s office, dreading the inevitable explanation. He
could see the doom-and-gloom in the man’s taut, bony face. 

“The problem we have,
Preacher, is there are no books to begin with. Much less laws on them.”

Marshal Pender Beckwith
settled his aged frame into his office chair and raised his feet to his desk. A
tough-as-rawhide lawman, he had the face and disposition to complement the
reputation. His chiseled, lean cheeks sucked in on a stogie. He exhaled,
blandly studying McIntyre and Logan through the smoky haze, as if waiting for
them come up with a solution.

Logan scratched his
head. “You mean there are no decency laws?”

“I mean until Defiance
is officially incorporated and at least an interim town council seated, there
are no laws. McIntyre pays my salary and I keep the peace. Penalties are based
on what I’ve had firsthand experience with, or what McIntyre deems appropriate.”
He sent McIntyre a sideways glance. “And neither McIntyre nor I have much in
the way of experience with enforcing decency laws.”

Logan wilted and took a
seat in front of the marshal’s desk. McIntyre rubbed his neck, attempting to
loosen some tension, and shame. “Ian and I are working on the incorporation
paperwork and bylaws. We have to file those before we can have any kind of an
election.”

“I’m sure there are
some
state
decency laws,” Beckwith motioned with his cigar. “I can wire
to Denver and inquire of the attorney general. But, generally speaking, what
goes on in Tent Town is on my backburner, unless violence is involved.”

“In the meantime, she’s
going to auction off a young girl like she’s a prime steer.” Agitated, Logan
rose again and slapped his hat against his leg, raising a small dust cloud. “I
can’t let that happen.” He pleaded silently with Beckwith, who simply stared
back, his face expressionless. Logan shifted to McIntyre. “I can’t let that
happen.”

McIntyre waved at Corky
through the window. The short, pudgy man chatting with Rebecca nodded curtly at
her and hurried to McIntyre’s side.

“Yes sir. Mr. Donoghue
said you wanted to see me.”

“Let’s take a walk.” He
and Corky ambled down the busy way, boards squeaking beneath them, their heels
thumping on the wood. “You spend much time in Tent Town, Corky?”

“Well, since you closed
the Iron Horse, I’m there more than I used to be. Only now . . .”
he trailed off, as if he might be speaking out of turn.

“Go on. What?”

“Well, that woman
Delilah, she’s closed the other saloons, I guess you know that.” He shoved his
hands into his pockets and obligingly turned sideways between a couple of
miners carrying pickaxes. “I used to get my drinks for free from the Vaticelli
brothers ’cause I chopped wood for ’em. No deals like that now. “Agitated, he
waved his finger in McIntyre’s face, “And the girls are charging more.” Chagrined,
Corky ducked his head in apology, and backed off. “Sorry.”

McIntyre scratched his
beard and contemplated just what questions he had. “Let’s talk about Delilah.
What is she getting into over there? I have heard rumors . . .”

Corky wrinkled his nose
as if the stench of a dead animal had filled his nostrils. “She’s a bad one,
Mr. McIntyre. I mean, I ain’t no saint or anything. That’s obvious, but there
were things your girls wouldn’t do. Delilah’s gals,” he shook his head, “they’re
puttin’ on shows.” The man tugged at the buttons at his collar, as if
uncomfortable with this explanation. “If men don’t have the money for a poke,
the girls will . . . well, gather up an audience, and, ummm,
perform
, you could say,” his voice hit a higher pitch, as if he couldn’t
believe what he was saying, “with each other, and I don’t mean dancing or singing.”

“I see.” McIntyre’s
stomach turned over.
No boundaries.

“I’m just a simple man,
Mr. McIntyre. To my way of thinkin’, a visit to a whore should mean
me
visiting
them
in
private
. Delilah’s got crazy stuff goin’ on.”

“And I imagine it will
only be worse once her saloon with that theater is open.” Now McIntyre felt a
twinge of concern for Corky. He had no business asking the man to inject
himself in the filth over there. On the other hand, an innocent woman was in
danger. Or was it
women
? “Do you know about the auction?”

Corky took a long
moment before answering. “Yes sir. Pretty darn despicable, in my opinion.”

“Agreed, and I’ll stop
it if I can figure a way. Do you know who the girl is?”

“Girls. Once it gets
started, a different one every Saturday. And no sir—”The loud jangle of a wagon
almost drowned out Corky’s words. “That’s bein’ kept secret.”

Men, gathered near
their horses, whooped and hollered as the wagon passed. McIntyre followed their
gazes and saw it was transporting several young Oriental girls. Their downturned
mouths and lowered heads filled him with guilt as they snuck fearful glances at
the rowdy men. McIntyre knew where these girls, these victims, were headed.
Could they be items for the auction as well?

Watching the traffic
fill in behind them, he said, “If you hear anything about that, or anything
else that could be of interest to me, will you let me know?” When Corky didn’t
answer right away, McIntyre added, “I’ll make sure it is worth your time.”

Corky looked up at him
with a mixture of confusion and caution. “I–I heard you got religion. And I
know you got married.”

His concern was clear,
and it wouldn’t be the last time someone expressed it. Did Charles McIntyre
have enough darkness left in him to control Defiance? Was he in any position to
crack the whip over this town?

Was that his job
anymore?

“You make it sound as
if I am dead and buried, Corky. I would remind you that some of the most
dangerous men in the world have been men of faith . . . with
wives.”

The answer seemed to
satisfy the man. He nodded. “I’ll keep my ears open.”

McIntyre, however,
discovered the answer left a bad taste in his mouth, as if it had smacked too much
of denial. Of who he was, and what kind of man he wanted to be.

Light from the lamp
overhead flickered on the new wood walls of Cripple Creek Church. Grinning like
a giddy fool, Logan grasped the sides of the freshly sanded pulpit, built just
for him, and inhaled the scent of pine, pitch, and . . . beer
and urine. Even in here he could smell Tent Town and its sewer.

His gaze wandered to
the windows and out into the dark. Lanterns, points of light, flowed, bobbed,
and weaved in the inky blackness. He could hear the men marching by, laughing
as they passed the church.

A soft thud drew his eyes
to the door. He wondered if someone was approaching and paused. No one knocked,
and after a moment he heard another thud, followed by fading laughter. The
hee-hawing of men mocking God.

He used to be one of
those scoffers. In fact, he had a vague memory of violently disrupting a tent
revival some years back.
In Texas, maybe?

He recalled stumbling
drunkenly over several pews, the terrified screams of outraged women piercing
his skull. A tough, hard-bitten circuit preacher had promptly tossed Logan out
on his ear.

He wondered what that
man would do about Delilah and her auction.

Drag her by the hair to
the edge of town and toss her into the dirt?
An appealing
picture, but Logan knew that was the wrong approach. Yet he had no idea what
the right approach was.

He counted the sixteen
empty pews in front of him, eight on each side, with a mix of exhilaration and
terror. Could he reach this town? Delilah?

He’d been out and
about. Shook hands. Slapped men on their backs. Gone down to the cribs and
introduced himself to the ladies, to convince them he was a friend.

More often than not he
saw confusion, disdain, but mostly fear in their faces. They knew who he was . . .
and they didn’t believe he had changed. Most likely, they believed he would
fail them. How many preachers had they seen wallowing in the gutters, Bibles
and bottles in hand, mumbling scriptures? Or worse, drinking, swearing,
and
consorting with wicked women while condemning such behavior from the pulpit.

He had known such men.

He feared becoming one
of them.

“Oh, Lord,” he
whispered, “What am I doing here?”

Riddled with
insecurity, he walked over to the front pew and picked up his Bible. A large,
black leather-bound book, it had belonged to the first pastor of the church
back in Willow. He opened it, praying God had a Word for him. He needed to know
he was not alone in Defiance.

The verse his eyes fell
on offered no comfort.

For unto you it is
given on the behalf of Christ, not only to believe on Him, but also to suffer
for His sake
 . . .

“I am not sure Logan
thought this out well.”

Part of Naomi wanted to
agree. As Charles and Two Spears settled at their small kitchen table, she set
the fried deer steaks in front of her two men. “Yes, I can certainly see the
problems with the location.” She returned to the stove for the gravy and
biscuits. “I’d just as soon never walk through that end of town ever again.”
She set the items on the table and pushed a fork closer to Two Spears, who was
reaching for a steak as he still preferred eating—with his hands. “Especially with
a child in tow.”

“Exactly.” Charles
unbuttoned his twill vest and draped it over the chair. “He should have thought
of this.”

“Maybe he did.” Naomi
sat down, the three bowed their heads, and she said grace softly and with much
gratitude. Food started passing and she took a steak for her plate. “Jesus said
it was the sick who needed a physician. Tent Town is sure in need of a
spiritual doctor. And if he’d put his church on or near Main Street, would
anyone from Tent Town come?”

Charles squirmed a
little. “Are you saying you think we should go to church there?”

She was passing the
mashed potatoes to him and stopped. Their eyes locked. “Are you saying we
shouldn’t?”

“No.” He took the bowl
and plopped some potatoes onto his plate. “I’m not quite sure what I think.”

“We can’t
not
go, Charles.” Naomi was well aware Two Spears was hanging on their every word
and she tried to keep any frustration from her voice. “Logan needs our support.”
She put food on the boy’s plate as she reasoned aloud. “If no one comes tomorrow,
he’ll be sitting there alone.”

“Ian and Rebecca are
going.”

Naomi sighed. It felt
wrong to miss services, there or anywhere. Sometimes appearances did matter. “If
we don’t go tomorrow, folks in Tent Town will figure we think we’re too good
for that church. That we don’t want to go church with . . . them.”

“I
don’t
want to
go to church with them.”

His bluntness surprised
her, but not his sentiment.

“Naomi, I do not ever
want to step foot in Tent Town again. How do you reconcile loving your neighbor
while staying away from corrupting influences?”

“You think they’d
corrupt you?” Fear wiggled in her gut. The image of Charles kissing Amaryllis
would haunt her until the day she died. She believed him when he said nothing
like that would ever happen again. So . . . “What exactly are
you afraid of?”

He stared at his steak,
fork in one hand, knife in the other. “I think we should talk about this later.”

Naomi smiled weakly and
looked at Two Spears. He had stabbed the steak, but couldn’t quite seem to
figure out how to use the knife to cut it. She waited a moment, but Charles,
who was closer, was oblivious to the boy. She laid her napkin on the table and
moved to Two Spears’s side.

“You’re doing much
better. But remember,” she took his hands and repositioned them, pressing the
blade of the knife into the meat and up against the fork, “press the blade here
and
saw
.” She pulled the knife back and forth a few times, her hands
covering the boy’s. A moment later she released him, and he cut his own piece
of meat.

He raised the utensil
with the impaled bite and studied it suspiciously. “I do not understand why you
use a spoon, a fork, or a knife for everything when hands work better.”

Naomi chuckled and sat
down again. “Well, hands do work better, but utensils keep our hands cleaner,
and we can eat hotter food.”

The boy scrunched up
his lips and frowned in contemplation. “Yes, that might be good.”

After dinner, Naomi and
Two Spears sat in the glow of the fire, playing marbles. At first he was stiff,
withdrawn even, but the more he played the more he liked the game. Having a
natural aptitude helped. After a particularly successful shot that sent marbles
scattering, Naomi was surprised to see the boy look up at Charles. His father
had his head down at his desk, writing furiously and flipping through papers.