Mary and the Fighter (Prairie Tales Book 2)

by Kit Morgan

  She slipped into the kitchen and went straight to the back staircase leading to the upstairs. She hurried up and began folding sheets. That done, she put them in the linen cupboard then leaned against the wall. Patrick Mulligan, are ye telling stories about me? Indeed, what was he saying? Why did Bobby tell her what he did?

  “Scared, I’m not scared,” she said and came away from the wall. She stopped at the top of the stairs. “Am I?” She looked down the stairwell, could hear faint voices coming from the kitchen. Bobby was still here. Had he even spoke to the squire yet? Probably not. Squire Ferguson would stop what he was doing and go see his prized mare himself. That much Mary had learned since she’d been on the premises.

  She descended the stairs slowly, not wanting to disturb Bobby’s conversation with Mrs. Wallace. Besides, she didn’t want to hear any more off-handed remarks.

  Unfortunately, the one he’d already made was true.

  Chapter 5

  Several hours later, in the village …

  “I’ll have Mr. Malcolm print up the announcements, shall I?” Squire Ferguson said.

  Mr. Cromwell nodded his agreement. “We can post them in Shelburne and the surrounding villages. Think of the crowd we’ll have!”

  “Problem with that,” Mr. Pike interjected, “is finding a place to hold it. Any ideas, Squire?”

  “Hmm,” he said and rubbed his chin a few times. “If we can’t find a place indoors, we can hold it outdoors. I have a fine field that would work. I don’t mind plowing up part of the ground to make a ring. We can rope it off fair enough.”

  “It has to be regulation,” Mr. Pike said. “I can have my men take care of it.”

  Squire Ferguson nodded, a smile on his face, and held out a hand. Mr. Pike gave it a healthy shake. “Pike, this is going to be the grandest fight the area has ever seen. Perhaps I should write the newspapers in New York?”

  “That’s a great idea!” Mr. Cromwell said. “Publicity couldn’t hurt the village or your reputation, eh Squire?”

  “No, it couldn’t,” the squire said. “If your man survives, Cromwell, maybe you can take him to New York to fight.”

  Mr. Cromwell gave him a half smile. “I’m afraid Patrick isn’t happy with the idea of fighting the Bruiser in the first place. In fact, he’s refused.”

  “What!” the squire huffed. “Then why are you sitting here making arrangements with us?”

  “Because I fully intend to talk him into it. Besides, he always does this. He’ll balk and dig his heels in, but I’ll turn him around soon enough.”

  “How?” Mr. Pike asked.

  Mr. Cromwell shrugged. “Well, for one, the lad needs the money. He wants to open an inn like The Rose and Thorn and be its proprietor. I’ve tempted him with the idea already. I’m sure with enough encouragement he’ll ripen to the idea.”

  “Fair enough,” Mr. Pike said. “But what if he doesn’t?”

  “I agree with Pike here,” the squire said. “How are you going to sweeten the deal for him? What do you have that will tip the scales?”

  Mr. Cromwell scratched his head in thought. “I don’t know, but I’ll think of something.”

  “You’d better,” Mr. Pike said as he stood. He picked up his mug of ale and downed it. “I’ll return in a week. I trust your fighter will have agreed by then?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Cromwell drawled. “Patrick’s a sensible lad. Besides, he needs the money.”

  “Does he?” Pike asked. “How badly? If he’s patient, then he won’t mind working a few years for it, now will he?”

  Squire Ferguson drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Don’t worry, we’ll think of something to convince him to fight.”

  Mr. Pike gave the Squire a curt nod and turned to leave. As soon as he was gone Mr. Cromwell turned to him. “What are you thinking?”

  The squire shrugged. “You know Mulligan better than I do. What would tempt him?”

  Mr. Cromwell ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “I don’t know. But as soon as I do, I’ll tell you.”

  Squire Ferguson narrowed his eyes on the innkeeper. “You’d better, Cromwell, or I’ll think twice about who manages my inn.”

  Cromwell audibly gulped. “But Squire Ferguson, I have plans for this place. Have you forgotten your agreement to sell it to me?”

  “No, I haven’t. But if you don’t make this work, I might.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll convince the lad in time for training. I just need to find something else to entice him with.”

  “You’ve already stated that. What did you have in mind?” the squire asked.

  Cromwell gulped again. “Well, it’s a shame the lad isn’t in love. A man will do anything for a woman, right Squire?”

  Squire Ferguson thought a moment. “You’re right.” He drummed his fingers on the table top again, thinking. “Have you anyone in mind?”

  “You mean a woman?” Cromwell shook his head. “Come now, Squire, you know as well as I do that there isn’t an unmarried female around here for miles.”

  The squire shook his head in dismay. “Pity that. That would have been the perfect incentive.” He drained his ale, got up from the table and put on his hat. “Well, I’m off. If you come up with anything, let me know.”

  Cromwell nodded as he followed the squire out of the taproom to the front door of the inn. “And you’ll not forget our original agreement?”

  “For you to buy this dilapidated establishment off me?”

  Cromwell nodded. “I still have the paper upon which you wrote the agreement down.”

  “Very well then,” the squire said as he waved him away. “Find our original agreement and I’ll abide by it. You can then buy this place off me and fix it up as you always wanted.”

  “Like I said before, it’s what the lad wants too,” Cromwell reminded him.

  “That may be, but I still say he needs more incentive. See if you can’t find a single female and wave her under his nose.”

  “Begging your pardon, Squire,” Cromwell said. “But the only single female in the area belongs to you.”

  Squire Ferguson stopped in his tracks. He looked at Cromwell over one shoulder, a slight smile forming on his lips. “So she does.” With that, the Squire left The Rose and Thorn.

  “You want what?” Mrs. Wallace said and put her hands on her hips.

  “Hire Patrick Mulligan to bring out some ale and serve my guests tonight,” the squire stated. “Have you gone deaf, woman?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ale with pheasant? It just won’t do! You have to have wine …”

  “My guests might want both,” he argued.

  She shook her head and huffed. “Fine, but I don’t see why Mary can’t serve both. She’s perfectly capable of pouring ale into a mug.”

  “I have no doubt, but I still want Patrick Mulligan to do it.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “This wouldn’t be that Mr. Pike and his giant, you’re entertaining, would it?”

  “So what if it is?”

  “You just want them to get a good look at Patrick Mulligan, don’t you? Do you realize the danger you’re putting that boy in?”

  “What danger? He’ll be perfectly fine serving ale,” the squire retorted.

  “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it,” she countered. “Don’t tell me you’re letting them get a good look at him before the fight?”

  He turned away and ran a hand over the dining room table as if checking for dust. “Have that girl clean this room again.”

  “Don’t change the subject Squire Ferguson,” she said tersely. “Are you, or are you not, backing this fight?”

  He spun on her. “Now see here, woman, it’s none of your concern.”

  “It is if you’re putting a man’s life in danger!” she shot back.

  Squire Ferguson bit his lower lip against a biting retort. If there was one thing his cook knew how to do, it was to get him flustered. “Have Mary dust this room.” He turned on his heel and s
tomped to his study.

  The squire went behind his desk and sat heavily in his chair. What to do? He’d already paid the printer for two hundred flyers and hired boys to put them up. He’d also contributed a tidy sum to the pot of prize money. He couldn’t back out now. “Cromwell, you had better come through.” He drummed his fingers on his desktop, a nervous habit, and stared at the door. “Mary!”

  He waited. And waited. And within a few more moments…

  “Yes, Squire Ferguson?” Mary said as she hurried into the room.

  The squire sat back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. “Do me a favor, girl, and turn around.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “Begging your pardon?”

  He raised a hand and moved it in a circular motion. “Turn around for me, let me look at you.”

  Her face flushed red and she did as she was told. The squire studied her as she turned a full circle and then did it again. Cromwell was right. He did have a decent woman in his household. One Patrick Mulligan might be interested in if given the proper encouragement. “Thank you, Mary, that will be all.”

  She gaped at him, backed out of the study into the hall and took off like a shot.

  Squire Ferguson smiled to himself. Now all he had to do was figure out how to bring Patrick Mulligan and Mary O’Brien together.

  Mary raced into the kitchen. “The strangest thing just happened,” she told Mrs. Wallace.

  The older woman turned to face her. “I can only imagine,” she said flatly.

  Mary cocked her head in curiosity. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s not what I mean, dear. But the squire. He’s up to something and I’d like to know what it is.”

  “That makes two of us,” Mary said and glanced over her shoulder. “He just made me turn in circles in front of his desk.”

  Mrs. Wallace shook her head and muttered something under her breath. “I’ll just bet he did. Keep an eye out, dear. The squire is overthinking again.”

  “He’s what?”

  “Whenever he gets a new idea, he thinks too hard and ends up ruining whatever it is he set out to do.”

  “Oh, I see,” Mary said.

  “No, child, you don’t. But I do. Just mind yourself tonight at the squire’s dinner. He wants you to serve the wine.”

  “Of course, I have no problem with that.”

  “Yes, but he also wants Patrick Mulligan to come and serve ale to his guests.”

  Mary blinked a few times. “He… what?”

  “Exactly,” she said.

  “But why?”

  “Come now, child, can’t you guess?” Mrs. Wallace asked.

  Mary thought a moment and then gasped. “You mean the squire’s guests are that barbarian and his friends?”

  “The very ones,” she said and crossed her arms in front of her. “And I’m afraid my words had no bearing on any of it.”

  Mary wiped her hands on her apron and clutched them in front of her. “But what does that have to do with Mr. Mulligan?”

  “Everything I’m afraid.”

  Mary took her apron in her hands and began to wring it. “I don’t understand.”

  Mrs. Wallace’s face softened. “Oh, you poor thing, didn’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Patrick Mulligan is a fighter. Squire Ferguson wants him to fight Bert the Bruiser.”

  Mary gasped. “He… he what?”

  Mrs. Wallace nodded. “Why else would he be having those men for dinner? And I won’t lie, I fear for that boy.”

  Mary tugged at her apron and closed the distance between them. “You mean Mr. Mulligan aims to fight that… that… beast?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Wallace said with a sigh. “Men. All brawn and no brains.”

  Mary, wide-eyed, turned away, her mind full of the most horrible images imaginable. She wasn’t there when her father died, didn’t see the bloodied heap he’d been made into. But enough people told her what happened, and she formed a clear enough picture in her own head. Now, however, instead of her father, she saw Patrick Mulligan beat to a pulp, lying in the middle of a ring, surrounded by shouting spectators with the Bruiser standing triumphant over his crumpled body.

  She put her face in her hands, let out a wail, and ran for the stairs.

  “Mary!” Mrs. Wallace called after her.

  “Let her be,” the squire said as he entered the kitchen.

  “You!” Mrs. Wallace said and pointed an accusing finger at him.

  “What did I do?” he asked innocently.

  “You’ve upset that girl!”

  “All I did was walk into the kitchen!”

  “You know what I’m talking about,” she said and reached him in two strides. “You’re up to something and I aim to find out what it is!”

  He took a step back and gave her an assessing look. “Calm yourself and fix us both a cup of tea.”

  “I’ll do no such thing!”

  “Blast it, woman, remember you work for me!”

  “What if I don’t want to work for you anymore? What if I quit?”

  “Stop talking nonsense and fix that tea,” he instructed.

  “Oh!” she said with a shudder. “You impossible man!”

  “And you are an impossible woman!”

  She went to the stove, picked up the teapot and moved it to the other side of the stovetop. She then huffed around the kitchen gathering what she needed. “I have a right mind to stop having tea with you!”

  “Oh, stop your complaining and just get on with it. I have a lot on my mind.”

  She stopped what she was doing and studied him. “Are you in trouble then?”

  “Nothing of the sort. I just have some things I need to figure out.” He looked at her. “I thank you for your concern.”

  She blushed. “Of course I’m concerned, you old windbag.”

  He glanced at the staircase and, knowing they were alone, smiled. “Quiet, woman. Keep your concern to yourself.”

  “Fine. Have you thought about anything I said earlier?”

  “A little. But my mind is made up. I’m in this too deep. I’m afraid I can’t back out.”

  She went to the stove, picked up the kettle using her apron, and poured hot water into the teapot. “You can always back out. There’s no shame in it.”

  “There will be where this is concerned,” he said. “Besides, I’d be breaking my word and I can’t do that.”

  She sighed as she returned the teapot to the stove. “No, I suppose you can’t.” Mrs. Wallace looked into his eyes and gave him a gentle smile. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  He glanced at the staircase again and back. “As a matter of fact, I think there is.”

  She followed his gaze. “What is this about?”

  Squire Ferguson smiled again. “Tell me, Mrs. Wallace, but what do you remember about young love?”

  Mary ran all the way to her room on the third floor and once inside, shut and locked the door. “Goodness!” she exclaimed, a hand to her heart. “What is that man thinking?” Problem was, she wasn’t sure which man to start with. Squire Ferguson and his looking at her like he did his prized mare, or Patrick Mulligan.

  “Patrick, ye clot head! What are ye thinking fighting a brute like that?” She pushed away from the door and crossed the room to her bed. “Ye fool!”

  The more she thought on it, the angrier she became. And why not? She’d lost her father to the ring, both she and her mother. Look what it did to them. Mary wasn’t sure if she’d ever have the money to send for the woman, let alone survive herself once her contract with the squire was up. No man would want her, she’d be … oh the thought was so painful she couldn’t bring herself to dwell on it. But she was no coward. She’d be twenty-four years of age!

  She sat on the bed. If only Da were still alive, she and her mother wouldn’t be in this fix. They’d still be a happy little family, but happiness was far behind her now.

  And what about Patrick Mulligan? What should s
he do about him? Wasn’t not telling her about his fighting lying? One would think he’d have mentioned it, especially after she told him about her da.

  “Oh, Mary, ye silly girl. Would he really say something? Not likely.”

  She stood and went to stare at her reflection in the small mirror over her dresser. “Look at ye. Yer getting older by the minute. Why can’t ye not find yerself a good lad and …” she stopped and sucked in a breath. “I can’t let him do it. That monster will kill him!” Indeed, judging from the size of Bert the Bruiser, he’d earned his name and then some. But how could she possibly stop Patrick from fighting? She hadn’t a clue.

  She returned to her bed and sat. She hated feeling defeated, and this wasn’t even her fight. Why did he have to fight that beast anyway? Was it to save his pride? Line his pockets? What?

  She stood, crossed to the other side of the room and back. “What possesses a man to do such a foolish thing?”

  A soft knock sounded at the door.

  Mary went to open it. “Mrs. Wallace, I’m so sorry …”

  “Never mind about that now. Come back to the kitchen and help me with the dinner preparations. Bobby’s gone to the village to tell Patrick what’s expected of him.”

  Mary blew out a breath as Mrs. Wallace looked her over. “What is it?” she asked, curious.

  “Hmm, let’s do something with your hair, shall we? After all, you need to look your best for the squire’s guests.”

  Mary rolled her eyes. “Murderers.”

  “Bite your tongue, girl, and mind your manners in front of these men. They’re not to be trifled with.” Mrs. Wallace looked at her again. “Have you got another dress?”

  “One,” Mary said. “Why?”

  “Fetch it. You’ll want to wear it.”

  Mary made a face. The last thing she wanted to do was to get gussied up for these men. It was bad enough the squire was looking at her like she was on an auction block earlier. But wait! Was he planning on giving her to one of his guests?