A Promise in Defiance: Romance in the Rockies Book 3 by Heather Blanton Page A

tails of them. Recognition,
possibly? He could read suspicion and disdain without doubt, especially as her
lip curled into a sneer.  
    Such a dark expression
clouded an otherwise stunning beauty. She had a face men should sketch or
paint, not buy. Defined lips, high cheek bones, flawless olive skin touched
with a hint of peach, surrounded by wisps of honey-colored hair. Surprised by
his distraction, he cleared his throat. “Is there something in particular I can
do for ya?”
    His question seemed to
interrupt her thoughts, but not her intense perusal of him. “Seen the paper?
There’s a nice article on you. A little light on the facts, I thought.” Her
eyes roamed over him, as if she was searching every scar, every shadow on his
face. “Looks to me like life’s been hard on you. I see a lot of miles.”
    He shrugged one
shoulder. “Rough miles on a road that was leading me straight to hell. I’ve
found a better way to live, Delilah. Peace and joy like I never had.” He
softened his voice, offering sincere humility. “I wish you’d let me tell you
about it sometime.”
    Her cheeks flushed a
deep red, but not with embarrassment. Anger. “You pious piece of—” Delilah bit
that off. She fought for self-control and Logan could see the victory didn’t
come easy. The battle left him perplexed.
    “What I mean is,” she
raked a curl off her forehead and tucked it up, “don’t you, especially you, ever talk to me about the Gospel.”
    Her antagonism toward
him and the Gospel mystified Logan. Not that it mattered. It wouldn’t stop him.
He dropped his hat on his head. “I can’t promise it won’t come up sometime,
Delilah.”
    He stepped down into
the mud. As he passed by her, she whispered over her shoulder, “True, you’re
not much for keeping promises.”

     
     
     
    Not much for keeping promises? Delilah’s mysterious observation followed Logan down the rutted narrow path
that served as a road here in Tent Town, but he determined he wouldn’t look
back at her. She was playing some kind of game and until he knew the point, or
at least the rules, he wouldn’t deal himself in. Besides, she was a little too
easy to look at.
    The hum of men’s
voices, grumbling horses, and the jingle of tack surrounded him as his boots
squished in the mud near the bath tents. Apparently, the proprietor had no
qualms about flooding the lower part of Tent Town with used water.
    Inside the tent he
heard water slosh and splash, and a man cursed about the unsatisfactory
temperature. Logan stepped over a large puddle as he and another man coming
from the opposite direction made for the same dry spot. The man started at
first to hold the patch of earth, but then recognition dawned in his eyes. They
widened, and he took a step back. Rather than challenge Logan, he waded through
the ankle-deep puddle and carried on.
    Logan hung his head.
Rounding up a congregation wasn’t going to be easy if these folks still thought
he was a kill-happy gunslinger.
    The faint smell of
urine and fresh-cut lumber laced the air as he ambled forward. A hundred or so
yards up, hammers whacked and lumber thudded as men crawled like ants in and
out of the skeletal structure of an up-and-coming building, the second floor on
the rise. The bones of Delilah’s new saloon?
    Across from the
construction site, men gathered at a bar. The remnants, he guessed, of a former
saloon. No walls, no chairs, just a plank floor. A long, polished, ridiculously
ornate mahogany bar drew in the customers like flies. Even at this early hour.
    The bartender, a young
girl with pert features and drab blond hair piled messily atop her head, poured
beer from mammoth kegs resting on sawhorses behind the bar. Men, holding their
shots of liquor or mugs of beer, milled about on the empty floor. Trying to
ignore the smell of the demon rum, Logan wandered into the midst of the patrons
and glanced around.
    “Might breezy on a cold
day, isn’t it?” he asked of no one in