As soon as the referee in charge of the timer signaled, the boxers entered the ring, walked to the middle scratch line accompanied by their seconds, and shook hands. As far as he could tell, Cleary held nothing in his palm. Viktor studied the reddish-haired man who was shorter by a couple inches but had impressive biceps. His second, Otto Rahn, stayed to observe the coin toss, and then jerked his head to indicate Viktor’s corner. Standing with his arms resting on the ropes, he listened to Fyodor’s pre-bout litany of familiar instructions with only half an ear as he scanned the crowd. Not that he knew anyone in this Rocky Mountain town.
“Now, hear me on this. No matter the temptation, don’t go for a hard knockout right away. I sort of promised a four-round bout.”
Four? Viktor’s head jerked around, and he narrowed his gaze. Since a round didn’t end until one of the boxers was down or held helpless against the ropes, maintaining competition for that long might push his limits. “I understand.” He stared across the ring, tapping a fist into his open palm. Get fit, stay strong, win big.
The umpire called the fighters to the center of the ring.
Cheers and whistles rose to a crescendo.
Fists held next to his cheeks, Viktor focused only on the action within this roped area, and the sounds faded.
After a few terse words about a fair stand-up boxing match, the umpire waited for an acknowledging nod from each combatant. Then he raised and dropped his hand over the scratch line. “Box.”
At the single command, Viktor drew in a breath, controlling the energy that flowed through his muscles. Balancing on the balls of his feet, he stepped forward, feeling a slight give in the wooden boards under the tight canvas. That flex would help his chances, because he liked to dance forward, land a couple of punches, then shuffle backward and out of his opponent’s reach. He let Cleary land a couple of body blows to the abdomen, gauging his strength. Viktor’s slats could take the punches.
Over the next few minutes, he released a series of combinations to test the Irishman’s reactions. Cleary might have impressive arms, but his moves were slower, and he swung the big punches, planting his lead foot before hinging his elbow backward. Once the chestnut-haired fighter caught Viktor in a neck clinch and landed a couple solid punches to his ribs. For a middleweight, the man packed power.
The first knockdown was the result of a rear cross and a high hook to Cleary’s neck. By the third time, when Cleary dropped to the canvas following an uppercut that produced an audible clink of his teeth, Viktor was feeling good. His knees were stable and his breathing was only slightly labored. At the end of the thirty-second rest, he bounced to the scratch line and waited, rolling his shoulders to keep them loose. A few of his knuckles oozed blood but the ache was manageable.
The umpire counted to six before Cleary, with sluggish footsteps, reached scratch.
Boos and catcalls sounded from all parts of the theatre.
Viktor sidestepped to the left, anxious to try a new feint and jab combination. A left hook coming out of nowhere caught him off guard and smashed into his right temple. He staggered backward and shook his head, blinking hard to clear his vision. Blood seeped from a cut in his eyebrow, and he dashed it away with a swipe of his palm.
Cleary circled with plodding steps, his hands held barely to his chin, breath rasping from his slack mouth.
Blinking didn’t improve his vision and his eyelid swelled. Viktor did the only thing he could to protect his eye—he switched stances and aligned his body to lead from his left. Although his power was in his right hand, he didn’t think Cleary could stand up to many more punches. With each feint and parry forward Viktor made, Cleary backstepped until he hit the ropes then came out swinging wildly. The unpredictability worried Viktor. As his vision dwindled, Viktor mentally chanted his motto and moved in close for jabs to the belly, which brought less pain to his aching hands.
Covering his face, Cleary staggered against the ropes, hooking an elbow over the top one.
Viktor hesitated, waiting to see if the ring-side referee called in Cleary’s second to remove him to his corner. Hearing no such instruction, he hunched his shoulders and combined a left cross with a right hook followed by three left jabs.
This time, Cleary pitched forward and landed flat on his stomach. When his second and bottle-holder had to carry him to his corner, the match was awarded to Viktor.
Viktor raised his clasped hands over his head and shook them as he bowed to the three sides of the ring facing the audience. His right eye was swollen shut, and his head throbbed like someone had driven a pickaxe into his skull. The prize money was his, but at what cost?
Sweetwater Springs, Montana Territory
Fall, 1887
Chapter Two
Sunlight streamed through the opened curtains of the Rowyns’ living room. Straightening from where she’d removed the bandage, Odette gazed at her aunt’s purplish ankle propped on a bed pillow. The swelling should be more reduced after a week of her ministrations. She shook her head. “Aunt Iola, the bay laurel oil is not helping as fast as I’d like. I really wish you didn’t keep using the stairs.”
“I’ve slept at your Uncle Karl’s side every night for almost twenty-one years now.” The brown-haired woman lifted her chin. “A sprained ankle won’t prevent me from continuing that habit.”
Was her aunt’s attitude devotion or destructive? Odette had no basis for judging since she’d never held a man in such regard. This small town on the Montana prairie offered little in the way of medicines. And she wasn’t familiar with the best places for herbs. Substituting for Aunt Iola with the housework left little time for Odette to replenish her stash of leaves, roots, and bark. Until she made a search of the nearby fields and creeks, an onion poultice would have to do. She pulled a small journal from her apron pocket and jotted notes about the injury’s appearance. Years spent in her father’s medical clinic near the New York docks taught her more than one remedy existed for most ailments and injuries. All she had to do was keep experimenting. “I need to go to the mercantile for supplies. Do you need anything?”
“No, dear.” Iola leaned back in the chair and sighed. “But don’t be too long. You remember the sewing circle meets this afternoon.”
Fourteen-year-old Lettie bounced up from the chair where she’d been stitching on her embroidery sampler. “May I go along?” With a stiff finger, she pushed her wire spectacles higher on the bridge of her nose.
“Of course. I’m glad for the company.” After pulling on a shawl, Odette stepped onto the front porch and waited for her cousin. The afternoon sun finally chased away the late September chill from the air. Odette lifted her face, grateful for the meager warmth on her skin. A few moments outdoors were all she could spare these days, and she relished every second. Swinging a woven basket in one hand, she walked along the hard-packed dirt street. At her side, Lettie skipped. Each hop-step bobbed the girl’s blonde corkscrew curls against her thin shoulders. Probably, if her cousin was with her friends, she wouldn’t dare indulge in the childish action. Fourteen was a hard age—no longer a child but not yet a woman.
Odette glanced at the row of modest houses similar to her aunt and uncle’s two-story home. Clapboard and painted, these buildings looked so different from the four-story brownstone where she was raised in Brooklyn. A few hardy plants clung to scraggly blooms and offered scant spots of color. Otherwise, the flowerbeds held only withered plants that hadn’t survived last week’s first heavy frost.
With such a small population, the hustle and bustle of city life was absent. No fruit vendors or ice sellers hawking their wares. No newsboys crying out the latest headlines. No rumbling trolleys or streetcars to avoid. Often, she encountered only one or two people on her walks. Plus the occasional melodic trill of bird song reached her ears.
Two weeks earlier upon the family’s arrival in Sweetwater Springs, Uncle Karl insisted the injury be examined by Doctor Cameron. Odette argued the doctor could do no more than treat the swelling with the same
herbal remedies she offered. Some men simply couldn’t accept a woman with intellect or who’d gained a practical knowledge of basic remedies. After all the years of living in the same neighborhood, surely Uncle Karl had heard her physician father boast of Odette’s experience working in his practice.
But a month had passed since Aunt Iola tripped on a log during on their westward wagon journey, and she still couldn’t walk without heavy reliance on a crutch or crying out in pain. Possibly Odette was dealing with the worse sprain she’d seen. As she strolled, she reviewed the list of needed items from Cobbs’ Mercantile. A box of epsomite salts, a yard of flannel, onions for a poultice. Plus two spools of thread—one white, the other black. Thankfully, she’d brought along willow bark and wood sorrel to trade. What she really needed was to find several yarrow plants. The mashed stalks would do more to reduce the swelling and pain than the onion wrap…and they’d smell better,too.
“Cousin Odette?”
The quiet voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked down to see her cousin’s wire-rimmed spectacles had again slipped toward the end of her snub nose. “Yes, Lettie?” Spreading her fingers, she eased the spectacles higher with a touch of her thumb and middle finger.
“May I have a sweet from the store?” She lifted her light-colored brows and smiled. “A penny candy or a licorice whip?”
Odette gazed into sparkling blue eyes that held such yearning, so different from her own non-descript hazel ones. Ah, to be young and carefree when one’s wants centered on a sweet treat. “We’ll see how well-behaved you are.” Good golly, she sounded just like her mother, exacting appropriate behavior at every turn. Shaking her head, she smiled. “Of course, you may choose one item. Or perhaps even a new hair ribbon.” She reached down and clasped the girl’s hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. Aunt Iola’s injury hindered the family’s ability to attend social events. Getting acquainted with more than a few of the townspeople had been difficult. Hopefully, this afternoon’s sewing circle might remedy that situation. “Besides, your company as I shop is appreciated.”
“Oh, good. Thank you.” Lettie dashed up the steps and burst into the store.
Odette followed and grabbed the door before it could slam in her face, jangling the overhead bell. The tang of pickles and the earthy scent of root vegetables greeted her. After pushing the door to make sure it latched, she turned and caught the pinched mouth look on the storeowner’s face as she eyed Lettie. “Good afternoon, Missus Cobb.”
The brown-haired woman’s head swung, and she dipped her chin. “Miss Hildebrand. I’m glad to see that niece of yours has a chaperone.”
At the plump woman’s disparaging tone, Odette’s spine stiffened. Does this woman not know children make noise? She approached the wooden counter where the shop owner stood. “Lettie is a wonderful helper, especially since my aunt is still recovering.”
“Oh, yes.” Missus Cobb’s shoulders dropped an inch, and her tight expression softened. “How is Missus Rowyn faring?” Then her brows lifted, and she gestured toward an open display box of Fralinger’s candies wrapped in wax paper. “I’ll bet she’d enjoy a selection of salt water taffy. A popular confection to take the invalid’s mind from her injury.”
My favorite candy. The red box with scrawled handwriting made Odette’s mouth water. Memories rose of enjoying fistfuls of the chewy treat with her siblings on summer trips to the Atlantic City shore. With effort, she pushed aside the nostalgic thoughts. “Perhaps another day. But I have come for a few things.” She set the scrap of paper on the counter next to the basket overflowing with green plants with heart-shaped leaves.
Missus Cobb nodded as she read the list then reached under the counter for a flat wooden crate. “While I gather these items, here is a letter addressed to you. All the way from New York City.” After flipping through several pieces of mail, she set a parchment envelope on the counter.
Odette stilled, not wanting to claim the letter. Her father’s bold script covered half the rectangle’s surface. Probably another demand for her arrival date in New York. Returning to help in Papa’s medical practice she could abide, but not agreeing to an engagement to Henry Villette, the son of her father’s best friend. Henry constantly told her she had no business working at the clinic. His stuffy attitude did nothing to endear him, and he’d laughed when she mentioned attending college. Besides, if she married him, her name would change to Odette Villette. A shudder ran through her insides at the syllabic rhyme.
To distract herself from those thoughts, she gazed around the counter and spotted a copy of the Sweetwater Springs Herald. Headlines included ongoing construction of an iron structure called the Eiffel Tower in Paris, France; the final victims from the Theatre Royal fire in Exeter, England, were buried; a reported sighting of Robert Louis Stevenson chatting for hours with Mark Twain in Washington Square Park in New York City; and tallies taken from silver mines in the Castle Mountains. A wide spectrum of topics that might pique her interest another day. But seeing that envelope from home brought the subject of her dilemma into immediate focus—to convince her father she needed to enroll in medical college and not get married.
After a glance over her shoulder to determine Lettie wandered the aisle of fabrics and notions, Odette stepped to the front window to gaze upon the town’s main street. She spotted a few wooden buildings with false second stories, the newspaper office, and the livery stable. This mercantile built of brick came the closest to the multi-story stone buildings she was used to seeing back home. The white church had a steeple, and the two-story saloon could use a coat of paint. The entire town couldn’t be more than a few blocks long. What did people out west do for entertainment?
She turned, and her shoulder brushed against a handbill posted inside the door. Bold typeface proclaimed an upcoming exhibition boxing match. She scanned the information, remembering several matches she’d attended accompanied by her brother, Eugen, and disguised in his clothing. Being five years older, he rarely wanted her to tag along, but for boxing he made an exception. He’d taken classes at an athletic club in their neighborhood and was fascinated with the various techniques. The fights always ended up too bloody for her tastes, so after the first round or so, she focused only on the athletes’ footwork. About the same time she started assisting in her father’s practice, she lost interest in the sport. Too many times, she’d treated the injuries resulting from those bouts—broken noses and fingers, split lips, cut eyebrows, cracked ribs. Then only to have the same men show up within a month with similar injuries. Why they wanted to brutalize themselves, she’d never understand.
“Miss Hildebrand, I have your order.”
“Coming.” Odette shook away the remembrances and walked to the counter, loosening the strings on her reticule as she approached. “Lettie, did you find what you want?”
The young girl hurried to the counter and held up a leather-bound notebook with the word “diary” inscribed in gold leaf. She bobbed on her toes, making her curls bounce. “May I have this? I’ve always wanted one.”
Odette paused, thinking of any possible objection her aunt would have to Lettie owning such an item. As the only girl in the family, Odette had often poured out the angst of her teen years onto the pages of her diary. Whatever became of those volumes? She smiled at Lettie’s anxious fidgeting. Knowing firsthand the pleasure the young girl would derive from the diary, Odette didn’t think twice about the difference in cost. “Of course. Add it to the items on the counter.”
Missus Cobb blew out a breath and then bent to refigure the total.
Familiar images on the shelf behind the counter caught Odette’s eye. Several pale green bottles stood clustered together. The label contained the image of a smiling mature woman with curls framing her forehead and lace edging her high color. The words “Lydia E. Pinkham’s” arched over the image and “Vegetable Compound” underscored it. This patent herbal medicine garnered world-wide recognition for aiding female ailments, but Odette knew the contents included a high volume of al
cohol. When she discovered Aunt Iola using the medicine to help her fall asleep, she hid her bottle.
If only she could develop a similar compound that achieved the same financial success, she wouldn’t have to appeal to her father about paying her college tuition.
“Your total is one dollar and eighty-three cents.” Missus Cobb tapped the pencil on the paper pad.
The bell over the door tinkled.
Occupied with deciphering the figures, Odette didn’t look over. Instead, she tilted her head to read the figures upside down. “That sum includes a credit for the herbs I brought in?”
“Oh, I credited the valuation to the Rowyn account.” The short storeowner pressed a hand on the counter and stretched to see who entered and smiled. “Good afternoon, Mack.”
“Afternoon, Hortense.” A thin-faced man with chin whiskers doffed his hat and nodded. “Ladies. Is Frank around?”
Odette thought she’d heard mention of the livery owner with the same name. This man’s crooked nose made her think he hadn’t sought proper medical treatment following whatever caused the injury.
“In the stockroom.” She waved a hand toward a brown curtain at the end of the counter. “Go on back.”
Not wanting Missus Cobb to have to tally the bill a third time, Odette set down the letter and filled her hand with coins then slid them into a line as she silently counted out the proper amount. In her peripheral vision, the red box of taffy beckoned, but she decided against an impulsive indulgence. “Here’s my payment.”
Missus Cobb scooped the coins into her palm and then slid them into her apron pocket. “Exactly correct.”
“Here, Lettie.” Odette handed the diary to the smiling girl and gathered the other items into a fishnet bag she used for shopping. From experience, she knew not to wait for a thank you. The Cobbs were the strangest shopkeepers she’d ever met—they expected respect as prominent business owners but didn’t have the most hospitable manners in dealing with customers. “Good day, Missus Cobb.”
Montana Sky_In His Corner Page 2