A Lady in Defiance (26 page)

“The 26th.” She paused then asked carefully, “Why?”

“If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Miller.” McIntyre surged to his
feet. “I really must be going.” He kicked himself for sounding too rushed.

“But wait,” Naomi pleaded, following close on his heels.
“What is it? Did you know my husband? Did you meet him?”

He stopped, took a breath and regained his composure.
Casually he handed her the mug and gathered his clothes and hat from the corral
fence. “Of course not. I’m sorry I upset you. I merely remembered I have an
appointment this afternoon. That’s all.” Shoving his hat on his head, he tried
to smile reassuringly at her. “I do have other interests, if you recall. I
apologize for the abruptness of my departure, but I really must go.”

She touched his arm, halting his exit. “Why do I feel like
you’re hiding something from me? And please don’t lie.”

He relaxed his shoulders and tried to ignore those pleading
green eyes. Feebly, he handed her a half-truth. “It’s the battle. Chickamauga
is something I’ve tried to forget.”

She looked as if she was debating the truth of the answer. He
didn’t rush her and after a second or two, she pulled her hand away. 
Without saying anything further, McIntyre strode off toward the stream, taking
the back way to the Iron Horse.

Once McIntyre rounded the bend in the trail and knew he was
out of Naomi’s sight, he picked up his pace significantly. Skirting aspens and
out buildings, he practically jogged back to the Iron Horse. His mind burning
with the impossibility, he cut through the back of the saloon, skimming the
edge of the lunch crowd, and shot straight up the stairs to his room.

Once inside, McIntyre tossed his clothes on his bed and
snatched open his closet door. After a few minutes of digging and diving
through boxes, suitcases and shoes, he emerged with his Confederate issue
haversack. Taking no time to reminisce over the bullet hole in the worn,
leather flap, he summarily dumped the bag’s contents on his bed. Dirt, dust,
and a small dead bug tumbled out along with a rusty razor, wooden comb, a
bone-handled toothbrush and a stack of letters tied with a yellowed piece of
cotton twine.

McIntyre saw the letters and froze. He slowly reached for
them then withdrew his hand, clenching it into a fist. But the unimaginable
possibility egged him on.

Reaching again for the stack, he recalled waking up in a
field hospital in September ‘63, on his nineteenth birthday. The nauseating
smell of blood and sweat assaulted him, squeezed his guts. He and the other man
lay side-by-side on cots in the makeshift infirmary. McIntyre raised his head
and saw his right pant leg was glistening with blood. The gauze pad on his
fellow soldier’s neck was dark red, saturated with blood as well, and leaking
in rivulets.

“I’m sorry that happened,” McIntyre whispered as an
almost-unbearable throbbing shot up and down his leg.

The boy shrugged weakly and touched the pad at his neck. His
voice was weak and raspy. “Now I know why you wanted us to bring up the rear.”
He smiled at his joke and took in his surroundings. “You get me here?”

McIntyre let his head down and tried to block out the pain.
“Barely.” And that was the truth of it. He had taken a bullet trying to save
this burly Confederate. It was a miracle they weren’t both lying in a pile of
bodies outside.

The boy swallowed. “Thanks.”

The surgeon, a grizzled old man in a grotesquely
blood-spattered white coat approached McIntyre and lifted the flap of his torn
pant leg. “You can wait.” He moved to the boy and carefully lifted the gauze
away from his neck. Blood gushed over his fingers and his eyes widened
slightly. “You first.” The doctor hollered over his shoulder, “Get this man
ready for surgery now.”

A weary voice from somewhere at the doorway of the tent
grunted. “We need at least ten minutes to clean up.”

“You don’t have five.” The surgeon replaced the bandage and
moved on to the next row of cots.

McIntyre hoped that meant his wound wasn’t serious, but the
boy he had risked his life to save was evidently still in peril. He thought it
foolish to introduce himself under these circumstances but also unacceptable
not to. “I’m Charles McIntyre.”

The boy focused blank hazel eyes on him. He was a large,
strapping lad, sturdy like an ox and as blonde as corn silk. He looked
invincible and had been nearly impossible to drag to the rear. “I’m John
Miller. You wouldn’t happen to have a pencil and some paper on you?”

McIntyre raised himself up on his elbows and looked around
his cot and down his body, trying to ignore the shredded, bloody pant leg and
its painful drumbeat. “My haversack.” Low and behold, it was still hanging from
his body. Gingerly, every movement making his leg pound worse, he pulled the
sack over his head and laid it on his lap. Taking a breath, he braced for the
pain and pushed himself up to a sitting position.

Sweat popped out on his brow and his leg throbbed
thunderously as he fished through the sack. He found the paper easily enough,
three wrinkled sheets with torn edges, and eventually the stubby pencil with a
dull point. Lying back down, he passed them over to John.

Propping himself up on his left elbow, John held the paper
with that hand and wrote with his right. Blood poured even faster from under
John’s glistening bandage as he composed. The boy scribbled with determination
for a few minutes, then carefully folded the one-page note and addressed the
outside. With shaking hands, he passed it, and the supplies, to McIntyre. All
his strength poured into the letter, he lay back exhausted.

“If I don’t come back in here, will you get that to her?” His
voice held the hint of the grave and McIntyre shivered.

He glanced at the letter’s addressee then shoved the items
back into his sack. “Surely. But you’ll be fine.” He hoped he sounded
convincing. “It’ll take more than one Yankee ball to fell a tree like you.”

John sniggered softly. “I reckon.” With that, he closed his
eyes and drifted off to sleep. Almost immediately two soldiers arrived and
lifted him onto a stretcher. McIntyre watched them take the boy out of the
tent. Curious, he retrieved the letter from his sack and again read the name. A
sweetheart back in this town of Cary? McIntyre hoped he wouldn’t have to mail
it to her.

A day later, both men lay recovering from their wounds and
the letter fell forgotten to the bottom of his sack. He never thought to ask
John if he wanted it back; John never asked for its return. McIntyre wondered
later if he even remembered writing it as he had lost a fair amount of blood.

The letter stayed for several months at the bottom of the
sack until he tied it neatly into the stack of letters from his mother and a
few female acquaintances. For no logical reason, he had never felt comfortable
discarding it or reading it. He simply carried it then buried it with his other
war souvenirs in the back of his closet. He hadn’t looked at any of the items
in at least ten years.

Now, as he went through the letters one by one, he discovered
that he didn’t remember any of the females who had written him. His heart
reacted slightly to seeing his mother’s elegant handwriting, and then the
letter from the soldier stared up at him. His breath caught in his throat and
he sat down hard on the bed.

After all this time, the paper had yellowed, was brittle and
wrinkled, and the pencil had faded some, but the name was inarguably legible.
The letter was, indeed, addressed to Ms. Naomi Frink of Cary, North Carolina.

Chapter
22

Daisy woke, knowing it was close to noon. She lay in her bed,
a gray melancholy washing over her...again. For so long she had been numb to
the smell of cigar smoke, whiskey and sweat that permeated her sheets. The last
few weeks, however, it greeted her every morning like a slap in the face.
Clawing her way out of bed to face another day was becoming harder and harder.
She’d had moments lately in which the smell of unwashed men, their nasty hands
on her body, their drunken groping had made her want to run screaming into the
street…or just put a gun to her head and end it.

Why can’t I deal with it anymore,
she wondered, unable to discern why
the feeling of hopelessness had crept back into her life. She preferred being
numb. She supposed she could handle it like the other girls−most of them
drank at least half a bottle of whiskey daily. Iris said it smoothed over the
rough days.

Daisy rolled over and her eyes fell on the night stand beside
the bed. The Bible Hannah had given her sat in the drawer…untouched. She hadn’t
been back to visit her, mostly because of Mr. McIntyre, but also because she
felt she should at least browse the book before returning it to her friend.

Looking for something other than whiskey to smooth over the
rough, she slid open the drawer and reached inside.

~~~

“All right, a little to the left,” Naomi called as Charles
Cody and his brother Dalton, both on ladders, straightened then hammered the
last nails into the new sign. “The Trinity Inn” hung high over the entrance of
their new business, announcing itself in bright gold and red letters. Beneath
that, but smaller, the sign read, “Serving the Bread of Life and Offering Rest
for the Weary.” She felt an unexpected sense of pride that she and her sisters
had been able to accomplish the task of opening their own business.

Pushing his black Stetson back on his head, Mr. McIntyre
studied the sign as he approached the sisters and Ian gathered in the street.
“Clever. Elaborate but still tasteful. Do you think you’ll be ready for
tomorrow?”

Naomi pulled her shawl closer and raised her chin with
confidence. They’d had two full deliveries of vegetables since she’d last seen
him, amply stocking the restaurant’s cupboard. “Yes, I think everything is in
place for us to open and start serving supper.”

“We hope to add lunch by November,” Rebecca said cautiously.
“We’ll just see how things go.”

Though traffic was slow, Ian kept a watchful eye on an
approaching wagon as he shared his thoughts on the future. “A lot of the
prospectors are leavin’ before the snows come, but I’d bet most of the miners
who stay will prefer spendin’ their evenings eating with ye ladies than in
their cold tents and one-room cabins.”

Mr. McIntyre shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched
his shoulders against the fall chill. “We’re counting on it, and I don’t think
it will take much to get Martha and her Kitchen to close down for the winter.”

Hannah’s face registered clear disgust. “I would be pleased
if she’d just start selling better food.”

Ian put his arms out and gently ushered the sisters a few
steps forward, giving the wagon room to pass. The movement pushed Naomi closer
to Mr. McIntyre, but she didn’t back away. Ever since that day he had told her
a strong spirit was a strength, not a weakness, Naomi had been doing quite a
bit of thinking. For the first time in her life, someone saw her fiery temper
not as a flaw to be corrected but as a mark of beauty. Even John had tried to
soften her. Was it even remotely possible that she was the way God wanted her?
Not perfect of course, but more in need of wisdom than temperance? She had
never entertained the possibility.

The emotional wall that Naomi used to keep Mr. McIntyre at a
safe distance had admittedly crumbled a bit since that chat. In spite of
everything she knew about him, she looked at him with different perspective
now. Wondering if there was more to the man than met the eye, Naomi asked
casually, “Mr. McIntyre, how much does the town change in the winter? Will many
people leave?”

“Our men stay because we run the mine twenty-four-seven, but most
of the prospector’s leave. Consequently, around the middle of October the stage
and freight wagons start coming in just once a week, less frequently than that
depending on the snow. When it’s deep, supplies come in by mule, if they can
make it. The town’s pace slows considerably, but we’re still here.” She almost
liked the sound of it, a slower tempo, less noise.

“I’m sure your restaurant will stay busy,” he added, “though
you would have trouble filling rooms in the winter. Next year will be different.
Ian and I have plans to build industries in town that will not be seasonal.
Your inn will eventually be busy year-round. Especially once we get the
railroad.”

“It will be interesting to see all that unfold,” Rebecca
mused. “So, we will see you gentlemen this evening?” Her eyes unmistakably
lingered on Ian and Naomi had to look away to hide a grin.

“Seven sharp,” Ian replied. “We’re eager to be yer first
customers.”

“Or victims,” Hannah joked.

As the laughter and banter went back and forth, Naomi
suddenly felt an unmistakable chill snake its way up her spine. She turned and
looked down the street, convinced she would spot someone watching them, but saw
only the normal, busy jostling of Defiance at midday. Disturbed, she continued
to study the traffic, the sidewalks, the windows on the second floors. No one
seemed to be paying them any attention…
strange
, she thought.
I could
have sworn−