A Lady in Defiance (25 page)

“Afraid?” McIntyre couldn’t believe his friend thought that.
“After rescuing Rebecca, I’m surprised you have to ask about my reasons. If
Daisy is seen hanging about here, then every man in Defiance will think he was
right about these women. They’ll think this hotel is nothing but a front for a
high-priced social club.”

Ian pointed his finger at McIntyre as if to argue, but slowly
dropped his hand. Scowling, he turned and marched toward the front of the
hotel.

~~~

Shortly after Ian left the kitchen, the other man working on
the sink went to retrieve a tool from his wagon, freeing Daisy and Hannah to
chat. Daisy couldn’t wait to ask at least one question. She knew she didn’t
have much time before she had to head on back to the Iron Horse. She sat at the
table sawing off thin slices of ham with distracted skill as questions danced
in her mind. “Hannah, can a person sin so much that God will never forgive
them?”

“No.” Hannah sounded resolute as she peeled eggs on the
opposite side of the table. “The Bible says that nothing can separate us from
his love.” She paused, as if trying to remember something. “For I am persuaded
that neither death nor life, neither angels nor principalities, nor powers, nor
things present nor things to come, nor height nor depth, nor any other creature
shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our
Lord. Romans 8:38 and 39.”

Daisy liked that passage, but wasn’t sure it addressed her
question. She had a lot of sin under her belt. “But, Hannah, you can love
someone without forgiving them.”

“No, I don’t think that’s true.” Hannah stopped what she was
doing to look at Daisy. “Not if you really love them and they ask. Take me for
example. If Billy Page walked through that door right now and told me he was
sorry that he ran off and left me to go through this all alone, I would forgive
him. How could I keep loving him, but hold the sin over his head? Because God
loves us, he’ll never stop offering forgiveness and since his word says nothing
can separate us from his love, I guess that means he’ll never stop offering
forgiveness.” Hannah laughed, obviously aware of the circular reasoning. “In
other words, there is no escape clause for God. He loves us and wants to
forgive us. Period. It’s not complicated.” Daisy doubted that. Everything in
life−her life−had been exceptionally complicated. “For me,” Hannah
added sounding sad, “It’s been much harder to forgive myself. My mistake was
like a pebble dropped in a pond. The ripple effect has impacted everyone I
love.”

Daisy saw the pain in her friend’s eyes, but didn’t know how
to help. The awkward moment instead prompted her to change the subject. “As
soon as I finish slicing this, I’d better go.” The thought formed a knot in her
stomach.

“All right,” Hannah bobbed her head. “But when you leave,
take my Bible with you.” She gestured toward the book sitting at the end of the
table. “You’ve got questions, and your answers are in there. When you come
back, we’ll talk about them.”

Daisy didn’t have much time to read, but she sure was
curious. She eyed the black, leather-covered book sitting over there waiting
for her and nodded.

Chapter
21

McIntyre watched Naomi for a minute from the stoop, hands in
his pockets, hat tilted back on his head. He was quite impressed by her skill
with an ax. She split several pieces of wood each with one single, unnerving
swing.

Musing over this little princess who seemed tougher than most
men he knew, McIntyre sauntered down from the stoop. “Remind me not to rile
you.”

Naomi stopped the ax in mid-swing and scowled. “Too
late...What do you want?”

“A kind word. A civil tone.”

She held his gaze for only a moment, then sagged and let the
ax rest on her arm. She shook her head and sighed. “I’m sorry. You are a true
scoundrel, but just because I don’t like you is no reason to be so rude.”

“And I do so want to be friends.” Frowning deeply at his
sarcasm, she went back to her work. She wasn’t going to get off that easy, he
thought, as he ambled towards her. “The importance of the work you’re doing
cannot be underestimated. If you don’t stock up enough firewood for the winter,
you’ll be burning all this new furniture for warmth by January.”

“That’s why I’m out here.” She carefully balanced a log on
the chopping stump. “We’re trying to keep someone on this chore sun up to sun
down.”

“Well, I’ve come to assist.”

Her eyebrows shot up and she looked at his perfectly
manicured hands. “With those?”

He approached her, stepping in too close because he knew it
bothered her, and took the ax. “I can chop wood. If you recall, I was one of
the first white men in this valley when the closest town was over four hundred
miles away.”

“I’m sure you can chop wood.” Naomi backed away and crossed
her arms. “But judging by those pretty hands, I’d say it’s been a while.”

With everything he had seen and done, how could she think him
such a hapless greenhorn? Determined to split the log with one swipe of the ax,
he took hold of the handle and hoped, almost prayed, for a perfect split. Naomi
moved away another step and tapped her foot, her posture boldly challenging him
to fail. Focusing, he raised the ax over his head and slammed it into the log.
It split cleanly and fell to either side of the block. McIntyre breathed a
mental sigh of relief.

Naomi pursed her lips then relaxed. “All right, I’ll accept
your help graciously and do the stacking.” She knelt and started loading her
left arm. “Just quit whenever your hands get sore.”

McIntyre bristled at the comment. He wouldn’t give her the
satisfaction. He would work until his hands bled or
she
quit. Naomi
started collecting and stacking the firewood lying about on the ground. They
worked in silence for a while and eventually fell into a rhythm. After fifteen
minutes or so, McIntyre was wiping sweat from his brow and had draped his coat,
vest, and hat over the corral fence. Ian popped out of the hotel, looked as if
he started to ask something and then apparently lost his train of thought.

“Did you need something, Ian?” McIntyre was not pleased with
his friend’s bemused expression.

The Scotsman chuckled. “No, I think not.”

Not long after, Hannah came out to announce lunch. Both
McIntyre and Naomi were red-faced and sweaty and said they would be right
there. However, when Naomi kept stacking, McIntyre kept chopping, despite the
fact that, yes, his hands were beginning to form blisters.

Hannah reappeared moments later with two tall pewter mugs of
cold water. “Straight from our kitchen pump,” she announced, alluding to the
new convenience with great enthusiasm. McIntyre and Naomi exchanged tentative
glances, but when she acquiesced and reached for the drink, he set the ax down
and took the other.

Looking a little bemused herself, Hannah wiped her hands on
her apron. “I’ll bring you something to eat...so why don’t you both sit down
before you fall down?”

Naomi walked away and took a seat on a log near their fire
pit. McIntyre followed directly. She gazed off at the mountains, to avoid
looking at him he knew, but something in her face changed, softened. She took a
long sip of water then rested the mug on her knee. “I don’t care for Defiance
at
all
,” she told him, “but I love these mountains. Long about midnight, the
biggest moon I’ve ever seen sits right on top of that peak over there. It’s
amazing.”

“Yes, I agree. I take a walk along the stream almost every
night. The sky is beautiful here, but the full moon is breath-taking.”

“A nightly walk?” She looked at him as if he’d suddenly
changed into another species. “You have time for such trivial pursuits as
admiring God’s handiwork?”

McIntyre clucked his tongue. “There you go again, talking
down to your humble subjects with such arrogance. It is unbecoming, even for a
princess.” A confused, perhaps even hurt looked passed quickly over Naomi’s
face. She didn’t apologize but he could see she was a tad humbled. Good enough.
“A walk helps me clear my mind,” he added to show his forgiveness. She nodded
as if that was an acceptable explanation. He took a swig of the cold water and
let the crispness of it cool his throat. “It gets hot here, but nothing like
the South,” he mused. “Do you miss Carolina?” She glanced over at him, this
time with guarded suspicion in her eyes. He waved a hand at her. “I’m just
trying to make friendly conversation.”

Naomi drummed her fingers on the mug then shook her head ever
so slightly. “No, the truth is, I don’t miss it a bit. You’d think I would.”
She bit her lip, looking puzzled over her lack of sentimentality. “The fact is
I never felt particularly attached to the country, just my family. Land is
land...except for here.” She cast her eyes back out to the distant sentinels
ringing the valley.

He drained his cup and rolled it restlessly between his
hands, wincing at the blisters that had, indeed, formed. “Do you mind telling
me about your husband?” She swung her gaze back to him, clearly startled by the
inquiry. “I’m just curious what kind of man was able to live with a wolverine
like you.” He had hoped to lighten the mood with his sarcasm, but he could see
that the question sent her racing down memory lane.

“How do you describe the person who completes you?” she asked
softly. “He was everything I’m not.” Naomi glanced down at the ground and
McIntyre watched in amazement at the transformation that came over her. “He was
strong and kind, loving, funny, romantic.” Her countenance softened to one of
complete peace, and the memory of love created what he could only describe as a
glow about her. The look fascinated and mystified him.
What must a man do to
touch a woman’s heart like that
, he wondered. “He was so solid in his
faith,” she continued wistfully. “And everything was black-and-white to John.
There were no shades of gray.”

“It sounds to me as if you had more in common than you
think.” From his perspective, he would have described her using the same words,
with, perhaps, the exception of romantic. He couldn’t speak to that.

“No,” she shook her head. “He was far more mature. He rarely
flew off the handle...unlike me. He called me his little wild cat because of my
temper and my mouth.”

“Ah, well, I have seen those demonstrated. I’d say you’re
equally proficient with both.”

The serene look left her, replaced by one of deep regret. “I
know, I know. Unlike my sisters, I haven’t achieved that meek and quiet spirit
yet.”

“Surely you don’t see that as a failure?”

“I realize that I’m too confrontational and too quick with my
tongue. Not ideal attributes for a Christian woman.”

“The West, and especially Defiance, is not an ideal setting.”
He straightened up to make his point. “If every woman who came out here was as
compassionate as Hannah or as kind as Rebecca, they wouldn’t last five minutes.
This land requires grit and perseverance and fierce independence. Frankly, what
you see as your greatest weakness, I see as your greatest strength.” Naomi
blinked and looked at McIntyre as if he had just recited the entire Bible,
chapter and verse. Turning her head, she looked positively bewildered by his
observation. “Don’t misunderstand,” he hurried on, wondering what in the world
he had just said to bring about this reaction. “I still think you could learn a
thing or two from charm school−” he flashed her his most rakish grin,
“but the West needs women like you.”

“No one’s ever−” she started, but trailed off. Looking
into her eyes, McIntyre would have sworn he saw−what, cordiality?
Something about her stance changed...softened. Hesitantly, and much to his
surprise, she asked him a personal question. “How−how did you come by
your limp? Is it a war wound?”

He wondered if that was her idea of an olive branch and
patted his right thigh. “General Braxton Bragg made sure no one, Confederate or
Yankee, left Chickamauga without something to remember the battle.”

“Chickamauga?”

“In the mountains of Tennessee. The terrain was so rough and
rocky, it was more like unbridled mayhem than a battlefield.” He paused as the
thunderous cracks of rifles and agonized screams came back to him with jarring
clarity. “A small group of Yankees surprised my company by popping up out of a
ravine.” He cocked his head as a memory flashed by him. “I took a bullet in the
leg, and it was a young man from North Carolina who dragged me to safety.” That
wasn’t the truth. In fact, the opposite had happened, yet he could never find a
comfortable way of saying he had saved another soldier’s life. McIntyre was a
lot of things, but a braggart wasn’t one of them. “He was shot for his
trouble,” he recalled. “A wonder it didn’t kill him.” That, at least, was true.

“My husband was at Chickamauga. He was injured as well.”

“A lot of good men died during that battle. On both sides.
Your husband and I were fortunate.” He had almost missed her simple
observation, lost as he was in his own musings. Then her words sunk in and a
worrisome possibility iced its way through his veins. “What regiment was your
husband in?”