Hearts in Defiance (Romance in the Rockies Book 2) by Heather Blanton

won’t
live on the reservation, and he has killed many white people.” He tugged on the
reins and turned Cochise back toward the shadowy woods. “We have to let Mr.
McIntyre know.”
    ~~~
     
     
    Something about manual labor spoke to McIntyre’s soul. Or maybe it
was just the thought of building his own home on his own land. He lodged the ax
in the peeled log he was notching and stepped back. He wanted a moment to
appreciate the beauty of his valley, surrounded by the towering San Juan
Mountains. Ponderosa pines as tall as mythical giants ringed him on three
sides, and the smell of evergreens and damp ground wafted to him. The Animas
River, miles of it, wound through his land. The longest and calmest stretch
rolled right past this spot—his home site. He watched the sun dance off the
moving water and listened to the gentle gurgling as it headed off into the
valley. Not so loud as to drown out approaching visitors, but a soft sound to
accompany one’s outdoor activities. This was a perfect spot for fishing or
splashing in the water with children.
    He smiled. Children .
He could almost see them, his and Naomi’s offspring wading carefully with their
arms outstretched, slipping and squealing with shock as they hit the ice-cold
water. Before Naomi, before God, he’d never dared think his life might take
such a path. He’d thought he was too far gone, not fit to be a husband, much
less a father.
    The thud of hoofbeats
intruded, snatching him away from the pleasant imaginings. He eyed the tree
line and listened. An easy lope by the sound of it, nothing that should alarm
him. Still, he moved to where his gun belt was draped over a tree stump, slid
the belt around his waist, and faced the woods where the rider would emerge.
    Moments later, Emilio, his
pinto’s white mane and tail dancing in the breeze, shot out from the trees, and
he waved at McIntyre. The boy slowed his horse and trotted over to him, the
sound of squeaking leather rising over the gurgling of the stream. “Your
telegrams came,” he said, pulling two folded notes from his pocket.
    McIntyre all but snatched
the messages from Emilio’s hand and read them quickly. He held one in each
hand, contemplating the answers. One told him the circuit preacher was over in
Mineral Point. Reverend Potter would be more than happy to perform the wedding
anytime in the next three weeks. After that, he was headed to Pagosa Springs
and wouldn’t be back this way for another six weeks.
    The other confirmed his
worst fears. After Emilio reported seeing One-Who-Cries in the vicinity,
McIntyre had sent a telegram to his old friend, Chief Ouray, to determine the
state of affairs at the White River Reservation. But Ouray knew that McIntyre
was really asking about the state of mind of the renegade. The chief’s response
burned like a volcano in McIntyre’s blood: Seven braves have left
reservation. Now ride with One-Who-Cries. More death coming.
    McIntyre lifted his gaze to
the valley around them, struck by the different paths each telegram
represented. One foretold of a peaceful life full of the things most men
desire—a good wife, beautiful children, a fine home. The other drew him back to
a hard life, one rife with violence and justice meted out without mercy.
    The hate that he held for
One-Who-Cries boiled close to the surface, and this disturbed him. But the
screams still echoed in his head. The loss still lingered in his heart. He
wanted justice from the renegade, to see the life drain out of him. Even more,
he wanted to be the one to pull the trigger. He shouldn’t want those things, he
knew, not as a man of faith who left vengeance and justice to God.
    But maybe some things, a man
had to handle himself.
    ~~~
     
     
    Hannah sniffed the yarrow Emilio held out to her. The flower had a
sweet, spicy scent. “Mmm. It smells nice.”
    He took the plant and laid
it on the kitchen table in front of them. A week after their unfinished hunt,
he had gone on his own and returned