A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 (34 page)

Naomi squeezed Charles’s
hand as they sat in the pew. She smiled down at Two Spears, his handsome little
face lit by the candle. “Be careful with that now.”

He stared into the
flame. “Do we do this to honor the dead?”

Charles’s breath
hitched. “We don’t know they are dead for sure,” he said, “and men are trying
to dig them out. We’re here tonight to ask God to bless the rescuers and get
the trapped miners out safely.”

The boy nodded, as if
the event met his approval.

Naomi squeezed his knee
in assurance, then she turned her attention to her husband. Charles met her
gaze. He too in the candlelight was as handsome as she’d ever seen him, even
stubbly, dirty, and a little worse for wear. She had the urge to move an ebony curl
off his forehead. Those dark eyes melted her heart every time she fell into
them, but tonight, they betrayed his worry.

“I love you. Does that
help at all?”

The corner of his mouth
turned up. “More than you know.”

Aching for him and the
families affected by this tragedy, she looked over her shoulder and gasped
softly. “Charles.”

He turned. Not only
were the pews full, but miners, their wives and children, cowboys, even soiled
doves, crowded in, lining the walls, gathering in the back of church. And more
kept showing up as they watched. The aisle filled, and folks even filtered in along
the walls and around the pulpit. Naomi guessed there were folks outside with
candles as well, judging by the glow coming from the open door. Motioning for a
man standing at the end of their pew to sit, she pulled Two Spears closer, and
pushed Charles into Rebecca and Ian.

Mollie and Mary Jean
worked their way through the crowd, and grabbed another armload each of
mismatched candles from behind the pulpit. Logan had been out all afternoon
gathering them up and inviting people to come pray. Scanning the crowd now,
Naomi had to fight back tears.

This disaster had
brought them together. For the first time, Defiance was a community. The
townspeople stood united in prayer.

The murmur on the other
side of the curtain puzzled Logan. At least some folks had shown up for the
vigil and he was grateful. Rising from his knees, he pushed the curtain aside
and froze. He could only see the backs of people. Puzzled, he gently wove
through them, nodding here and there at faces he’d never seen, and emerged at
the pulpit. The crowd astounded him.

Oh, God, thank You
 . . .

Throat constricting, he
laid his Bible on the pulpit and took several seconds flipping to his opening
scripture. He knew exactly where he wanted to go, but couldn’t seem to get his
throat, or his heart, under control.

I will never let You
down again
 . . .
or them. At least, I’ll try
harder than I ever have.

He cleared his throat
and the soft mutter of the crowd died. Overcome by the compassionate, expectant
faces before him, he had to cough again. “Thank you for coming tonight.” His
voice broke on the last word. He took a deep breath.

God, please help me
bring them Your comfort. Give me the words . . .

“Tonight, twelve men
lie trapped in the Sunnyside Mine. We don’t know if they’re alive or dead. At
substantial danger to themselves, other men are attempting to reach them.

“We don’t know why
disasters like this happen . . . or do we?

“Jesus said in John
16:33 that in this world we would have trouble. Of all His promises, I like
that one the least.” Soft laughter rippled through the congregation. “However,
in that same sentence, He encourages us to be of good cheer, for He has
overcome the world.

“Trouble comes. It overtakes
us. It
tries
to break us. If we have no hope in anything other than in
ourselves, it
will
break us. But if we put our hope in Christ, He also
promises that we are more than conquerors. We have the victory that nothing in
this life can take away. We can survive heartache, failure, death, and disaster . . .
because we are loved with an everlasting love. Nothing can separate us from
that love. Not our own actions, not the actions of others. But we have to choose
to accept that love, to take the hand that is offered to us.

“If we do, then, when
trouble comes His love will flow over us. Humble us. Fill us with joy and peace
that is beyond words.

“I don’t know the men
in that mine. I don’t know many of the men trying to save them. But I do know
that we are all faced with the same choice: to turn our backs on God, or let
Him in. I pray those men, all of them, will have time to make the right choice.
I pray that for all of you here tonight as well.”

“We have to stop.”

Ian’s words cut through
McIntyre like a knife. The dust from the most recent collapse still fogged the
air. For the fifth time in two days, the mountain growled and men scrambled
from the new shaft like ants from a hill. Now, they lay collapsed on the
ground, worn out, exhausted, out of hope.

As was McIntyre. He
couldn’t risk their lives anymore.

He nodded a move so
slight he knew Ian could have missed it.
God forgive me.
“We are done
here.”

For two days, Delilah
contemplated the quiet.

Not silence, but the
noises from the saloon were a shadow of their usual selves. The volume of
laughing, poker-playing, liquor-swilling patrons was down. Significantly. Even
Tony, the piano player, seemed to be striking the keys with more . . .
what? Reverence. As if they were all afraid too much noise might cause more
cave-ins.

Meandering down the
stairs, she stopped halfway and studied the evening’s customers. The crowd was
less than half. These were the worst of the hard-bitten, selfish, self-absorbed
men in town. Men more interested in a drink or a poke than trying to save a man’s
life by picking up a shovel. None of these leeches had bothered to go to the
mine and help. She knew because she’d talked to them.

The dregs of society,
and Delilah was swimming with them.

She felt ill.
Literally, sick of this whole mess, this whole . . . life. She
didn’t want to be surrounded by them anymore. Not the customers. Not the girls.

Cloer shoved through
the batwings and marched up to the bar. He turned a few heads with his
determined stomping as he went. When he reached the bar, he turned to the
meager crowd. “They’re gonna quit on ’em.”

A soft murmur of
confusion rolled through the place and Tony stopped playing. Neils, the new
bartender, approached Cloer. “You mean they’re giving up on the rescue?”

“They ain’t got no
choice. Every time they make a little progress with the new shaft, somethin’
else collapses. It’s leave twelve men buried or lose twenty more.”

Neils slid Cloer a
drink as shocked silence fell over The Crystal Chandelier like a funeral pall.
Delilah’s misery deepened.

Leave twelve men buried
or lose twenty more.

This is all my fault.

“Get out.” She barely
spoke loud enough for anyone but a customer at the bottom of the stairs to hear
her. He turned at the sound of her voice. A maelstrom of self-loathing erupted
in her heart. “Get out!” She marched down the steps and shot straight toward Cloer.
“Especially you, you vulture.” She knocked the drink from his hand, shattering
it on the floor. “Won’t pick up a shovel or move a rock, but you’ll gawk and
spy then come back here with your gossip just so you can get free liquor.” She
inched forward. “You’re a vile, disgusting weasel. Get out!”

The surprise on Cloer’s
face melted into anger. He pointed a finger at Delilah. “Nobody—”

“I said get out!” She
smelled alcohol on him. He’d already been drinking.
The bum
. Fury warped
into hysteria and Delilah shoved him back. “Get out! Get out!” She spun on the
room. “All of you! Get out!” She picked up glasses, full, empty, and chucked
them at the customers. One shattered across Cloer’s back as he raced for the
door. He and the others ran like scalded dogs from the crazy woman and the
flying glass. “We’re closing!” She threw one last glass then whirled on Neils. “All
of it! Shut it all down! I want everybody out!”

Neils cleared his
throat. “Um, yes ma’am.” He reached to untie his apron. “But you got folks in
the theater . . . a couple of customers upstairs too.”

“Out!” she screamed. “I
want everyone OUT! On the street. Naked. I don’t care, but OUT!”

Logan couldn’t walk
away . . . not yet. He stared at the gaping black hole of the
main entrance. Were any of those men in Hell? Had he talked to any of them on
the street? Had he planted seeds that might have comforted them in their last
few minutes?

God, forgive me if I
failed them
 . . .

He knew doubts would
torment him forever, but for tonight, he was done.

His strength gone,
Logan wasn’t sure he could make it back to the church, but the idea of sleep in
his own cot dragged him forward. Trying to bear up under the grief and self-doubt,
he headed to Tent Town.

Shuffling, trudging, he
prayed in the quiet night. The whole town felt . . . exhausted.
The streets were empty. Only low, muffled conversations went on inside the
tents. Even the horses and dogs were quiet. The deaths of these men, or the
suffering leading to their deaths, had brought the residents of Defiance around
to ponder their own mortality. Or so Logan hoped.

He was at the corner of
Bonanza and Water Streets when he looked around. Something was wrong. Out of
place. Then he noticed The Crystal Chandelier. Or, rather, its
silence
.

Lights burned from
nearly all the windows, but the place was quiet as a cemetery. He crossed the
street and slowly approached the batwings. Hand on his gun, he peered over the
door.

Delilah sat at a table
near the bar, a bottle of booze in front of her, her fingers caressing a shot
glass. He scanned the room, the stairs, as much of the second floor hallway as
he could see.

Satisfied that Delilah
was, for whatever reason, alone in an empty saloon, he entered, cautiously. “Victoria?”

Her chest rose and fell
with a big breath, but she didn’t move otherwise. “Come in, Logan.”

“Is everything all
right?”

“I suppose so.”

Still glancing around,
he made his way to her table and sat down, but on the opposite side, away from
the liquor. “What’s happened here?”

The seal was still
intact on the whiskey.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t
take it anymore. Knowing those men have been abandoned in that mine, and in
here sat the worst of the worst. Not a one lifted a shovel or even said a
prayer.” She shrugged a shoulder. “All of a sudden, I hated them. All of them.
This place. My girls . . . me. I wanted it all to go away.”

She reached for the
bottle and Logan rose, taking it from her grasp. “I don’t have all the answers,
but I do know this doesn’t help.”

He set the whiskey on
the bar and returned to the table, sitting next to her this time. “It was an
agonizing decision for McIntyre. I reckon it’ll haunt him the rest of his life.”

“Choices have a way of
doing that.”

Logan picked up a stray
poker chip and tapped it on the table. “Don’t I know it.”

Delilah dragged her arm
away from the shot glass and faced Logan. “Can people like you and me really
live different lives? I mean, can we . . . have futures, forget
the past?”

“You don’t forget it.
With Christ, you make peace with it. You understand . . .” He
leaned closer, thought about taking her hands, but didn’t. “You understand that
who you were then and who you are now, after Christ, that’s two different
people. Scripture says ‘Therefore if any man
be
in Christ,
he is
a
new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new.’”

Her gaze drifted off. “Become
new.” She closed her eyes. “So many mistakes. So many things I’ve done wrong.”

“He can deal with them
all.”

Behind them, the batwings
creaked and they looked over their shoulders. “Cloer, ” Delilah sat up, “I told
you to get out.”

Cloer swayed on the
doors, but after a moment sauntered on rubbery legs into the saloon.

Logan eyed the man with
caution. Early thirties. A bit gangly. Hat cocked back at an angle. Something
about him was keenly familiar. Either way, Logan didn’t like Cloer’s drunken
swagger. The man’s hand hovered near his waistband, as if ready to pull that
Bowie knife. Narrowed, suspicious eyes avoided looking right at them. He was
clearly so sauced he couldn’t be much of a threat, but Logan wouldn’t take him
for granted.

“Who is that?”

“Cloer. He worked for
McIntyre till he got fired. He’s been knockin’ around town, doing odd jobs. Cloer,
get out of here before I have Logan throw you out.”

Cloer stopped abruptly
in his staggering toward the bar. “Logan? You Logan Tillane?”

Logan tensed. “Yes.”

Cloer staggered
sideways into a table and stopped, rubbing his bleary eyes. He kept his hands
over his face and muttered something, but Logan couldn’t make it out. He
exchanged a puzzled glance with Delilah.

“Couldn’t stay away
from him, huh?” Cloer’s fingers slowly crawled down his cheeks until they curled
into fists.

Delilah glared at the
man. “What are you talking about?”

Cloer marched to their
table and slapped the felt. “You know what I’m talking about. You faithless
whor—”

Logan leaped to his
feet and pushed Cloer away from Delilah. “You need to go. Right now. Sleep it
off somewhere.”

Cloer’s gaze singed the
air between him and Delilah. “Louise, I told you if I caught you with him
again, I wouldn’t be responsible.”

Delilah stood. “What
are you blabbering about? Get outta here.”

Cloer snatched the
knife from his sheath and lunged for Delilah.

In the instant it takes
sunlight to glint off the water, Logan knew he had to stop Cloer . . .
one way or the other. Drunk or not, the man was fast, or maybe Logan was simply
done in from the mine explosion. He stepped in front of Delilah and grabbed for
the knife. The blade slipped right between his hands. A sharp, agonizing pain
seared its way deep into his gut as his hands clutched Cloer’s and the hilt.
Logan flinched and hissed, but over so much more than the wound.

Cloer froze. His eyes
widened with terror and confusion. Logan tightened his grip and slowly pulled
the blade from his stomach.

Cloer jumped back,
flinging his hands into the air. The knife fell to the floor, glistening red. “I
didn’t mean . . . I wasn’t . . . Holy God, don’t
kill me.” The man whirled and scrambled from the saloon, tripping over chairs,
and lurching out the door like a sick cow.

Logan marveled for a
moment over the deep, ruby color of the blood on the Bowie knife. His blood. He
looked up. Cloer had meant to stab Delilah. Kill her. He couldn’t get away. Logan
staggered after the cowboy.

“Logan!” Delilah
screamed.

Save her. Save her.
Stop Cloer.

Warmth, like bath
water, flowed down his stomach, seeped to his pants leg. His vision doubled,
but he pushed through the batwing doors and stumbled into the street.

Dark. Empty.
Thoughts—crazy, confused, circular—swirled in his head.
Save Delilah. Save
Victoria. Save the men in the mine.
His legs buckled and he dropped to his
knees. The sudden loss of control puzzled him.

The pain in his gut
came back, dull, persistent, not sharp like before. It cleared his head and he
sighed.

Not gonna make it, am I,
Lord?

“Oh, my God, Logan!”
Delilah skidded into the dirt in front of him and fell to her knees. “Logan.”
She made as if to touch his stomach, but withdrew her hands. “Help. We need
help.” She scanned the street and started screaming. “Help us! Somebody help
us!”