Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) (25 page)

Thirty-Six

Before Naomi or Mollie could run or fight, gunfire exploded over
their heads like a thunder clap.
Hawthorn
yanked Naomi against his broad chest and wrapped his arm around her as he spun
toward the sound. Naomi nearly fainted with relief. Charles leaped down the
steps of the Broken Spoke and strode toward them, eyes blazing, gun pointed
precisely at the center of Tom Hawthorn’s head.

The emptiness in Charles’ eyes, the seething fury of it, shocked
Naomi and her anger with Hawthorn evaporated.
He’s going to kill this man.
“Charles,
don’t!” She felt Hawthorn stiffen.

Oh, God,
she prayed
, please
don’t let him take this man’s life. He’s not that Charles McIntyre anymore.
He’ll regret it.

Charles marched within about six feet of her and Hawthorn, the gun
still leveled at the man’s forehead. “Hawthorn, you are holding the woman I am
about to marry.” He sounded incredulous, as if he couldn’t believe Hawthorn’s
audacity.

The man shifted his grip and brought his arm around Naomi’s neck.
“Good. You won’t risk shooting her.”

“Oh, there’s no risk of that.”

“Charles, just wound him.” Naomi spoke quickly, but barely above a
whisper. This was a critical moment for all of them.

Hawthorn tightened his grip slightly around her neck and laughed.
“Yes,
Charles
, just wound me.”

The blood flowing to Naomi’s brain slowed and she clawed at the
arm around her throat. The fire that had energized her kick merged with a
confusion that seeped through her consciousness like cold molasses. She
blinked, but her thoughts were slowing, growing fuzzy.

“I told you when you got out of jail to leave Defiance.” Charles
cocked the pistol. “And I know you did. But you were actually foolish enough to
come back.” Charles shook his head. “And now you’ve laid hands upon my
fiancée.” His voice, low and calm, belonged to an angel of death. Even in this
strange fog, the tone chilled Naomi. “You know I cannot let such an affront
pass.”

Hawthorn’s arm constricted a bit tighter and a gray wave loomed
before her. Her vision dimming, she could barely make out men coming to the
scene, weaving through lines of laundry, popping out from tents, settling in
around the edges of the intersection. A few grinned, several tipped their hats
back in anticipation.

She felt Hawthorn suck in a breath and tighten his arm even more.
Her thoughts grew dark, like a dying flame, and she closed her eyes. Light
sliced into her brain as he shoved her toward Charles. Disoriented, she
staggered to him and he wrapped her in a welcoming arm, pulling her to his
side.

Hawthorn raised his hands. “There’s your woman. Holster that hog
leg and we’ll have a fair fight.”

“What makes you think you deserve a fair fight?” Charles sounded
appalled by the idea.

Naomi shook her head, clearing the mist. Panic and anger both hit
her as she realized what had just happened. She looked back at Hawthorn and let
the anger win. For an instant she imagined snatching Charles’ gun from his hand
and shooting the man herself, but her reason rushed back. This needed to end so
they could all walk away. “Charles, you don’t have to do this.”

“I absolutely have to do this.” He glanced down at her, but she
didn’t see any tenderness in his face. Something dark and forsaken, something
without a conscience boiled in Charles, radiated from him in waves. The set of
his jaw, the slight sneer in his lip. Here was the man who had settled
Defiance. The man they were all afraid of. She didn’t know this Charles and
didn’t want to. The gun in his hand didn’t move, didn’t even pulsate with his
heartbeat. He stared over her head at Tom. “He’s crossed too many lines now.”

“Marshal Beckwith can handle the likes of him. This isn’t your
job.” She laid a hand on his chest. “If you do this, I think you’ll regret it.”

“He’s the man who beat Mollie.” His stare never left Hawthorn, but
she thought she detected the slightest waver in his conviction. “Because of me,
my law, my
justice
, he served thirty days and then walked away.”

“There’s real law here now. Mollie and I can press charges.”

“And how long do you think that would keep him in jail?”

“Come on, McIntyre,” Hawthorn goaded, raising his fists. “Set the
lady aside and let’s dance.”

Naomi ignored the man. “You can’t kill him. You can’t justify that
before God. Think for a moment and you’ll see that.”

“I’ll call it self-defense.”

“He’s unarmed.” Naomi stole a glance at the gun in his hand, as
still as if it was frozen in time. “You can’t just shoot him.”

“Naomi, if I don’t deal with this man in the right way,” he
dropped his voice to a whisper, “every miner in this town will think
respectable
means
soft
. That could mean you’re not safe, or your sisters, or Little
Billy.”

Naomi deflated over the argument. Maybe she didn’t understand the
way things worked out West, even after all this time. Praying she would see
Christ reflected in Charles’ eyes instead of that fearsome darkness, she
nodded. “Fine,” she pulled away, “But do you have to
kill
him?”

~~~

Thirty-Seven

“I never said I was going to kill him.”

But the desire to kill Tom Hawthorn when he saw Naomi strangling
in his arms had allowed McIntyre the purest sense of hate he’d tasted since
watching One-Who-Cries skin his friends alive. He’d had a clean shot. He could
have blown the man’s head off with the twitch of his trigger finger and no
woman—Naomi, Mollie, any woman at all—would have had to worry about him ever
again. Naomi’s pleading, though, had brought on an unexpected sense of
uncertainty.

All right, God, if I shouldn’t kill him, how do I get him to stay
out of Defiance? How do I keep the respect of this town and not come across as
weak?

Amazingly, a Scripture rose up in his mind.
My grace is
sufficient for thee. For My strength is made perfect in weakness.

Mercifully God dropped an idea into his head.
Thank You,
Father.
Holding Hawthorn’s gaze, McIntyre slid his gun into his holster,
peeled off his gun belt and handed it to Naomi. “Pride goeth before a fall,
Naomi. Maybe there is a way.”

Eyes wide and full of hope, she took the gun, reacting to its
weight with a small gasp. McIntyre stripped off his coat. Satisfaction swelled
Hawthorn’s chest and he quickly peeled out of his dirty miner’s coat and shirt
and threw them at the feet of the crowd. Naomi held Charles’ coat and shirt
draped over one arm, his gun hanging from her elbow.

Now bare-chested, he tried not to be distracted by the fleeting admiration
on Naomi’s face. He had kept in shape by boxing with Brannagh behind the
saloon. Well-developed shoulders, muscular arms and a tight stomach would allow
him to defend against and absorb blows, but he hoped that even that wouldn’t be
necessary. He had something else in mind.

He raised his fists, tossed a quick wink at Naomi and stepped
toward Hawthorn. He hadn’t done this in a long time, but he had lived for this
game in college and had perfected his skills to an impressive degree. “One
round, five minutes, Hawthorn. Tap me with a
fist
and you can have a
free pass in Defiance.”

The crowd reacted with a collective gasp. Hawthorn’s brow rose,
pleased as he was with the offer, but almost instantly suspicion followed.
“What’s the catch?”

McIntyre hunkered down another inch, brought his fists up a bit
more. “No catch. I say you can’t touch me … I’ll give you five minutes to try.”
McIntyre scanned the crowd and found Sean O’Connell, the man known for
arranging and judging fights in Defiance.

He already had his pocket watch in his hand and nodded at
McIntyre. “Gentlemen, five minutes start in three … two … one. Go.”

McIntyre shuffled his feet and moved toward Hawthorn. His opponent
wasn’t a big man, but he was muscular and had a long reach. Not a cake walk,
but McIntyre thought he could take him.

Hawthorn raised his fists and charged towards McIntyre. He threw a
right jab, straight on, no finesse. McIntyre ducked it, came up and tagged
Hawthorn hard in the temple, then moved behind him. Clearly surprised, Hawthorn
spun and threw a wild haymaker. McIntyre leaned back like a snake avoiding a
big cat’s swiping paw. Instantly, he reached back in and hit Hawthorn with a
sharp left hook. Laughter rippled through the crowd. While Hawthorn was still blinking
off the punch, McIntyre danced behind him, hitting him in the ribs with a fast
right jab as he passed by. He heard the laughter again, saw a man elbow his
buddy and point.

Hawthorn leaned into the no-doubt stinging ribs and stepped back,
putting distance between him and McIntyre. The fleeting shadow of fear
glimmered in the man’s grizzled face because he’d figured it out. McIntyre
wasn’t going to beat the hound out of him.

He was going to utterly and completely humiliate him.

The two men circled each other, Hawthorn flat-footed as a camel.
McIntyre bounced, shuffled, and held his expression still as death. Hawthorn
watched him intently now, most likely looking for weaknesses. Growling, the man
stepped in, and sliced at McIntyre with a fast right hook. McIntyre dodged it,
countered with a vicious uppercut and again stepped out of range. He had heard
Hawthorn’s teeth clatter and knew that last punch had rattled him good.

Surprising McIntyre, Hawthorn came at him with a flurry of wild
punches. McIntyre blocked, parried, punched. With a haughty flourish, he
actually slipped past the man and smacked him on the rear end. The crowd
erupted in laughter and cheers.

Hawthorn spun, already slicked with sweat.

“Two minutes, Gentlemen,” O’Connell informed the fighters.

McIntyre knew he had to get a bit more grandiose if he was going
to pull this off. Praying for wisdom and speed, he dropped his hands to his
side and rested his feet. For a moment, Hawthorn was taken aback, dropping his
guard slightly. Then McIntyre raised one hand and waved Hawthorn in, taunting
him. The crowd collectively gasped over the audacious move.

Growling, the man obliged and dove at McIntyre with the intent of
tackling him, but McIntyre side-stepped at the last possible moment and tripped
Hawthorn. The man sprawled head-first into the dirt. The crowd started booing
him and catcalling.

“Go home, laddy, we hear your Mum calling.”

“Come back when you’ve learned to fight.”

“Reckon yer getting yer schooling today, eh, Hawthorn?”

“No wonder you beat women. You can’t beat a man.”

Just a little more, Lord, and this man will never show himself in
Defiance again.

Laughter and ridicule raining down on him, Hawthorn surveyed the
crowd. McIntyre saw the warning in his eyes and readied himself for another
volley of punches. Hawthorn came up out of the dirt swinging a bowie knife. He
sliced and lashed at McIntyre’s ribs and came so close, McIntyre felt the
breeze on his skin. Naomi covered her mouth but didn’t utter a sound, and the
crowd turned ugly. Profanities flew at the man. McIntyre thought if he could
survive this, he might well have accomplished his goal.

Hawthorn charged again. McIntyre grabbed the hand with the knife
and jabbed twice, hard and lightning-fast, first into Hawthorn’s face, breaking
his nose, and then at his stomach, knocking out the man’s wind. Hawthorn
staggered and doubled over, blood streaming down his face. Finished dallying,
McIntyre went on the offensive again, pummeling the man with powerful blows to
his head and ribs. The crowd roared. Hawthorn collapsed on his knees, dazed.
The knife fell through his fingers. Clapping, cheers, and jeers filled the air
and a few onlookers spit at Hawthorn.

McIntyre aimed and delivered a vicious left hook to the man’s
right cheek, causing a spray of blood. Hawthorn leaned to the left, swaying
like a tree in the wind. He fell forward slowly and crashed in the dust.

O’Connell ran out and grabbed McIntyre’s right hand. Raising it
above his head he yelled to the crowd, “We have our winner, gents!” More
applause and cheers were accompanied by astonished whistles.

Exhausted, McIntyre sagged just as Naomi came up and wrapped her
arms around him. She smiled, admiration glowing in her eyes. “You didn’t kill
him.”

“All right, break it up, break it up!” Beckwith slashed through
the crowd, parting it like a grizzly thrashing through the underbrush. The men
scattered grudgingly, still laughing and shaking their heads in amazement.
Beckwith assessed the scene. Lips pursed into a thin line, he reached down and
claimed the Bowie knife. O’Connell dropped McIntyre’s hand like it had turned
white hot and donned an expression of angelic innocence.

Beckwith speared McIntyre with a suspicious, sidelong glare.
“Mollie said you were going to shoot someone.” He nudged Hawthorn with the toe
of his boot. “I take it that plan changed?”

McIntyre nodded and draped an arm over Naomi’s shoulders,
astonished that the limb felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. “Merely a
small disagreement, Marshal.”

“No need to arrest anyone, I assume?”

“Not this time, but if you see Tom Hawthorn in town after this,
arrest him for his own safety.”

The marshal pondered the warning for all of about a half-second.
Finished here, he spun and headed back the way he’d come.

Naomi wrangled McIntyre’s shirt free from the items she was
holding and offered it to him. Feeling as if his arms were encased in wet
cement, he slowly shoved the nearly dead weights into the sleeves.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the violence this place
breeds,” she said, trying to arrange the shirt on his sweat-slicked shoulders.
“I was doing all right until the very end when you had to …” She trailed off.

“Finish it?”

“Yes, finish it. The
sound
of the beating …” She flinched
and shook her head. “Between you, and Billy and Emilio, we need to open a
hospital.”

He smiled, surprised that even his face felt heavy.

Naomi shifted to face him more directly. “So, what were you doing
over here? Why were you coming out of the Broken Spoke?”

The hint of suspicion didn’t escape him, but he supposed he
couldn’t blame her. Why would a man like him be on this side of Defiance?
Then
again
… “I believe I could ask you the same thing.”

“
I
wasn’t coming out of the Broken Spoke.” He cut his eyes
at her, not amused by the quip. She sighed. “I followed Mollie. She was trying
to find Amanda. And you?”

“I sold the Broken—” he stopped buckling his gun belt and cocked
his head. “Amanda?”

Naomi shook her head. “She wasn’t in her room this morning. Mollie
told Hannah she was going to look for her. I was afraid she might come to Tent
Town. I didn’t think she should be here alone.”

“And you were going to make all the difference to her safety?” He
made no attempt to hide his exasperation. “All one hundred and ten pounds of
you?”

Naomi stiffened into a portrait of indignation. He’d spit the
comment out with a little too much acid, admittedly, but still, would the woman
never learn? The realization that he could have lost her today nearly buckled
his knees and he leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You don’t know what it did
to me when I saw him choking you. It was all I could do
not
to pull that
trigger. It might be a little helpful if you would stop acting like a cougar
and realize you’re just a kitten.”

Her mouth fell open. “Don’t talk to me like that, and don’t treat
me like a child.”

“Then stop acting like one and think of someone other than
yourself.”

Oh, she wanted to argue. He could see the fire in her eyes. She
looked away from him as her cheeks flamed. “I’m not the one riding with every
posse Beckwith calls up.” She reached up, grazed the bullet hole in his hat and
shook her head. “I want
you
to be more careful.” Her shoulders slumped,
her breathing slowed and, finally, she sighed in defeat. “I should be, too. I
should have asked Emilio or Billy or even Ian to follow her. I just didn’t
think it was still so lawless here.”

He tilted her chin up, too exhausted to keep this fight going.
“You
will
be more careful next time?”

“I will.”

“I’m sorry, I feel like this is my fault.” Mollie skirted a wide
berth around Hawthorn and approached them. “I shouldn’t have come over here.
Amanda is …” She faded off and McIntyre nodded. This new man he sought to
become wrestled for the first time with stinging disappointment, in himself for
nearly giving in to a mindless rage, and in Amanda for throwing away a brighter
future.

“You had to try,” he said. “I’ll speak to her again. Perhaps that
will make the difference.”

A few feet from them, his battered opponent stirred. McIntyre
stepped in front of the girls, in case the man had any fight left in him. He
prayed he didn’t. McIntyre didn’t think he had the strength to lift an arm,
much less throw another punch.

Hawthorn rose to all fours, and stayed there for a moment. Getting
a second wind, he staggered to his feet, his back to the group. He turned and
met McIntyre’s gaze. Hate flickered in his eyes but died out. Wiping the blood
from his face, he saluted the victor with a cursory nod and turned away.

Hawthorn slapped a drying sheet out of his way, dipped behind the
line and disappeared into a floating, drifting forest of laundry. The man
hadn’t retrieved his shirt or coat, which lay untouched in the dirt. Perhaps he
would, but McIntyre suspected Hawthorn wanted to get out of Defiance as quickly
and as quietly as possible.

So they had settled their differences God’s way and it had worked
out. He stole a glance up at heaven and offered his appreciation again, still
marveling at the wisdom of the answer.

~~~

Rebecca plucked six straight pins from the cushion on the bed and
wedged them between her lips. Moving carefully, she knelt behind Naomi’s
wedding gown so she could finish pinning the bustle. This dress might just turn
out to be the most ravishing creation she had ever sewn, or re-sewn, as it
were.