Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) (12 page)

Fifteen

“Well, I don’t think he’s contagious.”
Doc Cooke came out of a back room, wiping his hands on a towel
and reeking of rubbing alcohol. “My best guess is Beaver Fever. He could have
gotten it drinking from a tainted creek or from an infected person who prepared
his food.”

He tossed the towel over his shoulder and joined a shirtless
Matthew sitting atop a metal examination table. McIntyre had never seen a man
with that much muscle. Matthew’s arms were the size of McIntyre’s legs and a
woman could wash clothes on his rippled abdomen. Tall and somewhat well-muscled
himself, he felt like a scrawny coyote next to this man.

“Well, let’s see what we have here,” Doc mumbled, sliding his
spectacles farther up his nose. Matthew turned so the doctor could see his side
better and removed the jacket. He grunted and jerked when the doctor probed the
wound.

A little tender
? McIntyre
noted with satisfaction. While he had no sympathy for Matthew, he did feel bad
for the girl caught in the middle. “Dolores can go then, I assume, Doc?”

She raised her head up at the question. Once the possibility of
infectious disease had hit her, her shaky smile had fled altogether. Pulling
herself into a tight ball, she had claimed a seat by the window and not uttered
a sound in the last hour.

“Yes, I think that will be fine.” Doc glanced at the girl over the
top of his round spectacles. “You and Black Elk didn’t share any food or drink,
correct?” She shook her head enthusiastically. “All right, just let me know
immediately if you get to feeling poorly.”

“Sure, Doc.” The girl scrambled for the door.

“Dolores.” McIntyre stopped her as she grabbed hold of the door
knob. “One last time, you’re sure Black Elk didn’t say anything that would tell
us where he’s been the last few days?”

“Nothing I can recall. If I think of something, I’ll let you
know.”

He believed her, and the girl skedaddled like wolves were nipping
at her skirt. McIntyre sighed and leaned against the wall, fanning himself with
his hat. Beaver Fever. Indians were usually fairly skilled at avoiding that.
“How long before symptoms show up, Doc?”

The physician pressed a gauze pad soaked in alcohol to Matthew’s
side and the man hissed. “Onset of symptoms is anywhere from one to two weeks.”

The wheels in McIntyre’s head spun. Beaver Fever usually came from
tainted water, more than from food. But Doc mentioned an infected person could
have prepared something. And Black Elk, who had
coins
, had said a
white
woman was dead. Was there a connection? McIntyre stared at the patient’s closed
door, anxious for answers.

Where had this Indian been and what did One-Who-Cries have to do
with it? “Is he conscious?”

Doc Cooke commenced sewing up Matthew’s side with a very long,
hooked needle, evoking a sharp hiss from the man. “He’s in and out, thanks to
the hammer blow to the head,” he lifted an accusing glance to Matthew, “but
he’ll come around.”

McIntyre twirled his hat on his index finger. At least Black Elk
wasn’t contagious. That was a blessing. The office door rattled and, without
knocking, Marshal Pender Beckwith stomped in, taking over the room with a
flurry of his canvas duster. “McIntyre, I could use another rider. I need to
serve a warrant on a George Betts. He’s hiding out with friends over in
Carson.”

Alert with purpose, the man’s beady eyes and chiseled, bony face
held no warmth and only added to the Marshal’s no-nonsense reputation. A tough
and cunning lawman, the rabble of Defiance was in the process of learning their
new marshal didn’t play. McIntyre would hate to be hunted by him … and he
surely didn’t want to go hunting with him. “I thought you’d left already.”

“Did. Then I got word he’s not alone and might know I’m coming.
Not something I want to walk into with no back-up.”

Implying Wade was no back-up at all. McIntyre’s eyes skipped over
to the deputy, who had dropped down into a seat near the cold pot-bellied stove
and also not uttered a word since they got here. Pale as grass covered by a
spring snow, he had confessed he didn’t do well with blood and needles.

McIntyre sighed.

Admittedly, he was a better choice than the skittish deputy, but
he was frustrated by these constant interruptions to his plans. The spineless
men in town needed to do their part and take on deputy duties. He slapped his
hat against his leg for finality and pushed off the wall. “Fine.”

Carson was several hours from here. He’d have plenty of time to
bring Beckwith up to speed on Black Elk, including a possible connection to
One-Who-Cries. He studied Matthew, trying not to relish the pained wince as Doc
pulled the second stitch tight. He’d better find a smidgen of sympathy for him,
he needed a favor and loathed asking the brute, but he had no other choice.
“Would you mind letting Naomi know? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

All of the color drained from Matthew as he clamped his jaws shut.
Still, he managed a nod. McIntyre hid a smile as he followed Beckwith and Wade
out the door.

~~~

Sixteen

Huffing in dismay, Rebecca stripped off her now soaking wet skirt
and threw it across her room.
Her
petticoat hadn’t been spared the scorching, either. Mortified, she untied it
and kicked it off.

She plopped down on her bed and cradled her cheeks in her hands,
wagging her head back and forth. The images of Ian patting at her rear end like
a mad man wouldn’t leave her. That humiliation was followed by the dousing
pitcher of water, courtesy of Naomi. Though her aim had been awful, practically
drowning Rebecca, enough of the water had hit the small flames to extinguish
them. Rebecca couldn’t recall ever being so humiliated in her life. These
things didn’t happen to her. Naomi was the only disaster in the kitchen. She
desperately needed to get her focus back before she burnt the place down to the
ground.

Still, there was a silver lining here. Clasping her hands over her
heart, Rebecca fell back on her bed and grinned like a little girl with a huge
secret. Ian had been about to say something clearly more interesting than
anything he’d said in the last year.

He’s tired of being friends.

A giggle much beneath her advanced years bubbled up.

“Rebecca,” Naomi called through the door, “are you all right?”

Ridiculously giddy for a woman of forty, Rebecca fought for
control of the effervescent laughter and sat up. “I’m absolutely fine. You can
come in.”

Naomi entered slowly, a suspicious dip in her brow. “You don’t
sound fine.”

Her eyes bugged when Rebecca put a hand over her mouth, muffling
another giggle. “Oh, I can’t help it.” She rose from the bed and reached for
Naomi’s hand. “I think Ian was finally about to say something
relevant
.”

Naomi laughed and covered her sister’s hand with hers, squeezing
hard. “Oh, I hope so. It’s so good to see you happy … and
living
.” The
reference to Rebecca’s all-too-lengthy mourning period sobered them both. “Ben
and Gracie wouldn’t have wanted you to mourn for them the way you have … for as
long as you have.”

Rebecca dropped her gaze. “I know.” Years of visiting her
husband’s and daughter’s graves, remembering birthdays in solitude, wallowing
in guilt for surviving the fire. They were dark years. Defiance had at least
helped her find a divine spark again and Ian, bless his heart, had fanned it to
life.

Naomi clutched her sister’s shoulders. “So tell me what he said.”

Rebecca’s fine mood returned. “He said he’d grown tired of being
friends and hoped I felt that same way.”

Naomi inclined her head, as if asking for more.

“Oh, that’s when my skirt, which I’d closed in the oven door,
caught on fire.”

Naomi laughed again, but the sound died quickly under a puckered
brow. “You don’t think he meant something else, do you?” Rebecca did not want
to hear anything pessimistic, but her scowl did not stop Naomi from proceeding
with the dark thought. “I mean, could he have meant he’s giving up? I’m sorry,
I don’t mean to spoil anything. I just … well, you’ve been waiting on him for
so long. What if he’s lost his nerve?”

Rebecca was disheartened by the possibility and turned away from
Naomi. What if Ian hadn’t read the longing she’d telegraphed him daily and was
admitting defeat?

Naomi laid a hand on her shoulder. “Maybe the man needs a hint.”

Rebecca sighed, overwhelmed by the seeming fruitlessness of all
this. “I don’t remember how to drop one.”

“Then, sister, hit him over the head with it.”

~~~

Billy kicked himself again as he watched Hannah out of the corner
of his eye. Bouncing Little Billy on her lap, she listened and nodded as the
Scottish fellow delivered a simple sermon to the small group in the dining
room. Their Sunday service. Unfortunately, Billy couldn’t hear anything but the
marshal’s order repeating over and over in his head. The lawman had stopped in
just as their hymns were beginning, pointed a boney finger at Emilio and told
him to get his mount. His gaze had barely touched on Billy as he scanned the
rest of the group. A group comprised of women, an infant, an older gentleman in
an argyle sweater, and a dude with a bowler on his knee.

He should have ignored the dismissal in the marshal’s eyes and
leapt to his feet. Emilio hadn’t hesitated for even a split second. But doubts
had instantly assailed Billy. He wasn’t sure if it was his place to join
something like that, being new in town. It had sounded dangerous. Not that he
was afraid, necessarily, but he was no lawman.

He sucked on his cheek, pondering the town. Defiance was pretty
wide open. First, a crazy Indian brawling at a saloon required McIntyre’s
assistance, followed by the call to bring in a gunman. Add to that the gunshots
peppering the air last night and he could just hear his father lambasting him
for his decision to come to the lawless, bawdy mining town.

“My son,” Ian read and Billy jerked his head up as if called,
“forget not My law, but let thine heart keep My commandments.”

He sighed and Hannah tossed him a disapproving look, mistakenly
thinking him bored. Great. Billy needed to do something to get a hand up on ol’
Emilio or his son there was going to grow up speaking Spanish. He stopped his
knee from bouncing and attempted to pay attention to Ian’s sermon.

“… Trust in the Lord with all thine heart and lean not unto thine
own understanding.”

Guilt tweaked Billy. His own understanding sure had done a bang-up
job for him so far.

“In all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct thy paths.”

Ian spoke for a few minutes about trusting God with big details
and little ones. They all mattered to God because His children mattered to Him.
Billy tried to see the Lord as a loving father, but a fat, cigar-smoking man in
an expensive suit came to mind instead. One who didn’t care about his children,
only that they obey and serve him. Love didn’t enter into the equation.

After the closing prayer, he floundered for a moment as the
sisters, Mollie, and Ian started putting chairs back around the dining tables.
Eager to recoup a few points with Hannah, he jumped up to help. He was amazed
at how she functioned with Little Billy on her hip. Single-handed, literally,
the girl was a furniture-moving maestro, shoving tables and chairs back in
place with ease, but she didn’t turn Billy’s way once. And moving furniture
sure wasn’t as manly as chasing bandits.

If there was any silver lining here, it was Hannah’s avoidance of
him. If she didn’t care, why wouldn’t she look at him? Focusing on that, he
followed her to the kitchen and blurted out, “May I hold my son?” He didn’t
know where the request had come from and immediately regretted it. He didn’t
know how to hold a baby. What if he dropped him or broke him somehow?

Hannah paused at the batwings, considering the request. “All
right.” She handed Little Billy over. “We’re going to get Sunday dinner on the
table. Why don’t you take him out back in the sunshine? But keep an eye on him,
especially near the stream. He’s starting to crawl.”

Smiling inwardly at her motherly directions, Billy folded his son
in his arms, but with a stiff, awkward grip.

Hannah grinned. “No, like this.” She grabbed his hands and
rearranged Billy’s hold so the baby sat on the inside of his forearm, with his
other hand on the child’s back.

More at ease, he searched his son’s face and met a pair of
innocent angel eyes. Unexpectedly, Billy’s heart did a kind of funny flutter.
The infant babbled something nonsensical and touched his father’s nose. Billy
grinned. Giggling, the child flailed, landing a pretty good right hook on
Billy’s cheek. “Whoa, hold on there, son,” he said, grabbing the wild hand.
“It’s a little too early for boxing lessons.”

Hannah laughed, a magical sound like a breeze through wind chimes,
and Billy hungered to hear it again. She tickled Little Billy’s back. “We’ll
call you when it’s on the table.”

Holding him as if he were as fragile as a snowflake, Billy
wandered out into the sunshine with his son. “Hey, you wanna go over here and
see the horses?” Stopping near the small corral, he whistled for his horse.
Prince Valiant trotted up, blowing and shaking his head, curious about the
pint-sized human. Little Billy put his hand out and the horse allowed the
stubby fingers to caress his nose. Apparently tickled with the animal, Little
Billy kicked and giggled and turned a disarming grin on his father.

Joy and amazement broke loose in Billy’s soul and his heart did
that fluttery thing again. “Hey, buddy,” he whispered, “I’m your.
 . 
.dada.”

The meaning of the statement wafted over him like a welcome summer
breeze and he kissed his son on the forehead, savoring the sweet smell of
talcum powder and maybe a hint of vanilla. His throat constricted on him and he
squeezed his eyes shut. Hugging his son as tightly as he dared, he fought back
against the guilt clinging like a dead vine to his soul.

 “Oh, I am so sorry, little man …” His voice broke and he swallowed
against the emotions tying him up in knots. “I am so sorry for letting you go.
I won’t leave you ever again, no matter what.”

~~~