Mary and the Fighter (Prairie Tales Book 2)

by Kit Morgan

  He pulled her into his embrace and held her. “Aye, Mary. I’ll wed ye. Straightaway. Right after the fight.”

  Mary felt his body stiffen. Her eyes popped open. She hadn’t realized she’d close them. She backed away, looked at him, and saw the same expression of shock on his face. “Fight?” She squeaked.

  “Uh, aye,” he said as his eyes darted around the brewery as if looking for an escape route.

  She squirmed out of his embrace. “Fight?” she said, her voice stronger.

  “Now, don’t get upset. But It’s the money ye see. There’s a lot of it involved. And, well, it will set us up nicely. Of course, it will be better if I win …”

  She took two steps back, hands balled into fists, and stared up at him. “Fight?!”

  He nodded slowly. “Aye, as I said before, er … I’m being paid just to get into the ring with him.”

  Mary blew. “With the Bruiser?! Patrick Mulligan, how could you do such a thing?”

  Patrick held his hands up. He must have seen what was coming. She struck him in the chest with her fist. “Of all the idiotic, daft things to do! Yer going to fight that beast?!”

  She hit him again. On the third strike he caught her fist and held it. “Aye, I’ll fight him, take the money due me, and marry ye!”

  “How can ye possibly marry me when I have a contract with the squire?” she shot back.

  “Because part of the deal I made was with the squire. If I fight he releases ye from yer contract, ye silly woman!”

  She stood stock-still, her throat so thick she couldn’t speak. All she could do was stand there like a dolt.

  “I didn’t think ye’d believe me when I told ye,” he said. “That’s why I thought I’d propose first to see how ye really felt about me. Ye do want to marry me, don’t ye?”

  She felt herself nod, but was so flustered and confused, she couldn’t make her mind and body connect well.

  “There, ye see? Ye do love me.”

  That got her attention. “Aye, enough to see ye don’t fight that… that… barbarian! He’ll likely kill ye!”

  Patrick sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “Ye don’t believe in me then? Ye don’t think I can do it?”

  “I know what he can do, and it won’t be pretty if done to ye!”

  He stared at her a moment. “What else would ye say, lass? Ye’ve never seen me fight. Haven’t any idea what I can do. I can’t blame ye for yer words.”

  “For what?” she snapped.

  “For thinking I haven’t a chance. But I do, Mary. I’ve been training with Mr. Freeman and he’s very good at what he does.”

  “I don’t care if he grows wings and calls himself an angel! Yer a fool to fight Bert the Bruiser, Patrick Mulligan, and that’s all I have to say about it!”

  “All?” he prompted.

  If that was a challenge, then she’d gladly take it. And did. “Patrick Mulligan, if ye fight that man I’ll never speak to ye again as long as I live!”

  Patrick sucked air through his nose and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Now see here, Mary O’Brien, I’m doing this for you. I’m going to fight that man, and …” He threw his hands in the air and spun a full circle. When he faced her again he pointed a finger at her. “… And I’m going to win!”

  Mary’s mouth dropped open. “Win? Against that mountain of flesh? Have ye completely lost yer senses?”

  “Not yet, but yer getting me there,” he tossed back.

  Her hands went to her hips. “Patrick Mulligan, ye stubborn clot head! If ye really loved me ye wouldn’t put yerself in danger.”

  “Danger? Well of course there’s danger. It’s a fight!”

  “Aye, and if he doesn’t kill ye, I will!”

  His face softened. “Why Mary, ye do love me…”

  Mary groaned and stomped the floor with her foot. “Ye stubborn ox! Yes I love you! But if ye fight that man then I’ll not speak to ye ever again!”

  Patrick folded his arms in front of him and tapped the floor with a foot. “Mary, I’m doing this for you, for us. Freeing ye from the squire’s service is more important to me than a, well… an unscathed body. So I take a few hits and get bruised. I might even get a broken nose or an arm, or…”

  “Or dead,” she stated.

  “No, I’m better than that. He’ll not kill me.”

  “But he’ll try, won’t he?” she said, hands on hips. She felt her body shaking but didn’t care. Let him think what he wanted. She was so mad she could spit in his face. What she really wanted to do, however, was kiss him. Maybe that would shift his thinking. Arguing with him certainly wasn’t.

  Patrick scrubbed a hand over his face a few times. “I’m going to fight. When it’s over, I’ll get paid, the squire will cancel your contract, and we’ll wed. Is that clear?”

  She crossed her arms in front of her and lifted her chin. “Perfectly. But know this, Patrick Mulligan. If ye fight, ye may get paid, but yer certainly not going to marry me.”

  “And why not?” he asked, his jaw tight.

  “Because there won’t be enough left of ye to say I do. Is that clear?”

  Patrick pressed his lips together and stared her down. “Yer a stubborn woman, Mary O’Brien.”

  “And yer as stubborn as an ox, Patrick Mulligan!”

  “Yer right, I am!” He put his hands on her arms, pulled her close, and kissed her.

  Mary melted against him, unable to help it, and let loose a tiny moan of pleasure.

  He deepened the kiss in response and held her tighter. She couldn’t breathe but didn’t care. He’d ignited a fire in her she’d never felt before. If she were smart she’d use it to keep him from fighting that brute! Problem was, she didn’t know how. Did her threat mean nothing to him? The thought spurred her to action.

  She pushed him away, breaking the kiss. “Ye heard me, Patrick! Don’t fight the man. Please…”

  “Mary, if I don’t, then seven years …”

  “Isn’t too long to wait, is it?”

  He stared at her, still as a statue, and said, “It is for me.”

  She took a step back, her knees weak again. But not from his kiss. This time she felt nothing but despair. “So that’s it then. Ye won’t listen to reason?”

  “Ye are my reason.”

  She shook her head as her eyes drifted to the floor. “And ye were mine. But … oh, Patrick!” She ran from the brewery, past the stables and all the way to the wagon, never once looking back. He’d freed her heart and broken it all at one fell swoop.

  Chapter 12

  The day of the fight Mary sat in her room after her morning chores and stared at the wall. She‘d been so upset with Patrick she hadn‘t seen or spoken to him since their private battle of wills. She had a broken heart, that was true. But she was still breathing, walking, could hear and see. After today she wasn‘t sure if Patrick would be able to do any of those things.

  A soft knock sounded at the door.

  “Come in,” Mary called.

  Mrs. Wallace poked her head in. “Are you coming, dear?”

  Mary looked at the wall again, eyes narrowed. “No.”

  Mrs. Wallace entered the room. “You can’t stay mad at him forever.”

  “True. Especially since by the end of the afternoon he’ll probably be …”

  “Stop right there,” Mrs. Wallace said. “You’ve been gloomy ever since you spoke with that young man. And you’ve condemned him to death before anything has even happened!”

  “Well what am I supposed to do?” she said and came off the bed. “Patrick Mulligan is the most infuriating, stubborn, bullheaded, oh! I could go on and on.”

  Mrs. Wallace joined her near the bed. “Have you forgotten why he’s doing this?”

  “He says it’s for me, but if he loved me, he wouldn’t do it at all.”

  “It’s because of love that he is doing it, dear. He’s willing to risk life and limb to marry you and have you in his life.”

  “What li
fe?” Mary said and began to ring her apron with her hands. “I can’t stand it, Mrs. Wallace, I just can’t! He’s going to go into that ring, fight that man and lose, I just know it!”

  “Like your father?”

  Mary stiffened. “My father has nothing to do with this.”

  “Doesn’t he?”

  Mary thought a moment. The circumstances of her father’s fight were different. “It’s true my father lost his fight. But it was because he died.“ Hmm, so maybe the circumstances weren’t so different.

  “It’s the nature of the sport, dear.”

  “It’s a horrible sport. Terrible. People die!”

  “But most of them live,” Mrs. Wallace countered. “And it’s one reason why they have rules. I hear they’re fighting according to London Prize Ring rules.”

  “What difference does it make? Patrick is going into that ring with that monster, and …” she put her face in her hands. She couldn’t cry. She’d done enough of that already. She wanted to scream, to beat Patrick to a pulp. But that would be done for her soon enough.

  Mrs. Wallace put an arm around her. “Come with us. At least be there for him.”

  “No,” she said and dropped her hands. “How can I?”

  “Because you love him?”

  Mary said nothing and instead returned to the bed.

  Mrs. Wallace let go a heavy sigh. “Very well. I’ll leave you then. The squire and I will be leaving momentarily. Join us if you change your mind.”

  Mary didn’t look at her but asked, “Where are they fighting?”

  “About a mile from here, in the north pastures.”

  She closed her eyes. There must be a huge crowd expected if they had to have the fight in a field. “Goodbye, Mrs. Wallace.”

  The cook said nothing and instead slipped out the door, leaving Mary to her thoughts.

  She stood and paced to the other side of the room and back. “Patrick, why?” She sat on the bed, stood, sat again. She was so restless she didn’t know what to do with herself.

  She went to the window when she heard the squire’s wagon. He was using the large one. Mr. Gerber was driving, the squire beside him. Mrs. Wallace, Bobby, and the other two stable lads were riding in the wagon bed. From the looks of it, Mrs. Wallace had packed a huge picnic basket. They were making a day of it.

  She left the window and returned to the bed. After sitting for a minute or two, she sighed. “What am I doing?” She looked at the ceiling. “Please, Ye can’t let him fight. Ye understand, don’t Ye? He’ll never make it.”

  Or would he? She went to the window again. The wagon was already through the gate and heading down the road. By the time she ran downstairs and made it to the gate, they’d be out of earshot. She’d missed her chance to ride with them.

  Mary pressed a fist against her lips. Lips that Patrick had kissed. She’d not forgotten his kisses, doubted she ever would. She’d carry the memory of them for the rest of her life.

  She went to the window again. The wagon was nowhere to be seen. She let go a shaky breath and glanced at her shawl draped over a chair. Did Patrick have a chance? Everyone on the estate seemed to think so.

  Then she thought of something she hadn’t before. Why would Squire Ferguson offer to free her from her contract in the first place? She’d been so angry with Patrick, she didn’t think about the squire’s part in all of this. Did he offer her to Patrick just to get him to fight?

  “Why that good for nothing … oh! He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, would he?” She went to the window, her breaths coming in short pants as her anger took hold. “Squire Ferguson! Ye ought to be horsewhipped!”

  Horse. She could saddle one, ride to the north pastures and tell Patrick he’d been tricked into fighting! The squire wouldn’t free her. She was his property. Maybe the only reason he told Patrick he would was because he’d bet a huge sum on the fight. But then, the odds would be horrible, the Bruiser the favorite. There would be no money to be made. Patrick was the long shot.

  Mary groaned, pulled at her hair, grabbed her shawl and ran out the door.

  Mr. Freeman massaged Patrick’s shoulders and arms and then slapped him on the back a few times. “Are you ready, boy?”

  Patrick gave him a sidelong glance. “As ready as I’ll ever be. How’s my opponent doing?”

  “Bert?” Mr. Freeman said with a small laugh. “If my guess is right, he’s hung over.”

  “What?” Patrick said and came to his feet.

  “I can’t be sure,” Mr. Freeman went on, “but I hear he was having a real good time last night at The Rose and Thorn.”

  “Are ye telling me that Bert the Bruiser isn’t fit to fight?”

  “No. Bert is always ready to fight whether he’s fit or not.”

  “Yes, but, it won’t be a fair fight.”

  Mr. Freeman chuckled. “Son, it wasn’t a fair fight to begin with. You know it, and I know it. The man outweighs you by at least seventy-five pounds. If he imbibed a little too much last night that’s fine with me.”

  Patrick sighed. “But…”

  Mr. Freeman held up a hand to silence him. “That’s enough. We start in five minutes.”

  Fights between the locals had been going on all morning. His fight with the Bruiser was the main event and would be followed up by more of the smaller ones as people settled in to picnic. Many already had. Hawkers wandered through the crowds selling pastries, fruits, and sweet meats. From the looks of it over half the county was in attendance. Wagons were lined up in rows tempting him to count, but he didn’t bother. There were too many. This was the most excitement he could remember, and he was the cause of it. He wanted to give the crowd a good show, wanted to give his all, even if he didn’t win. How else could he prove to Mary how he felt about her?

  “Well, lad, how are you feeling? Ready?” came a familiar voice.

  Patrick turned to find Mr. Cromwell and the squire smiling at him. “Is anyone ready for something like this?” He looked at the squire. “Would you be?”

  “I’m not a fighter, Mulligan. But you are and a good one too. I came to wish you luck.”

  “Thank you. I’ll do my best.”

  “Of course you will,” Mr. Cromwell said. He exchanged a quick look with the squire. “Nothing like love to spur a man on, eh, squire?”

  The squire cleared his throat and took a sudden interest in the bucket of drinking water at Patrick’s feet. Mr. Freeman should have taken it when he left earlier. Now he’d have to do it. He watched the squire a moment. “You brought the contract with you?”

  The squire patted his pockets. “It seems I’ve left it in my study. But don’t worry, we’ll see to it when this is over.”

  Patrick snatched up the bucket, spilling water as he did. “We’d better.” He left to take himself and the bucket to the ring.

  Mary ran as fast as she could. Mr. Gerber had placed a lock on the tack room door. Even if she did get a saddle and bridle, she‘d still have to catch a horse. All of them were grazing in the pasture. Who knew how long that would take?

  So, she decided to reach Patrick under her own power. Unfortunately, it was taking longer than she expected. She stopped, panting, and shaded her eyes against the sun. “Where are the north pastures?“ She took a deep breath and continued to run down the road, caught sight of a wagon up ahead and decided to follow it. She waved her arms but the driver didn’t see her. He turned off the road and cut across the grass and headed up a hill. As out of breath as she was, she couldn’t shout. She was going to have to continue on foot. She hoped she didn’t get there too late. The last thing she wanted to do was arrive after the fight was over, the damage done.

  She reached the spot where she’d seen the wagon leave the road. Obviously it wasn’t the first. The grass was covered with wagon tracks, a lot of them. She turned and started up a slow rise, crested it after a few minutes and looked at the scene below. “Great merciful heavens,” she muttered. The crowd below was huge! Wagons and horses took up a large area, the people a
nother. In the center of the crowd was the ring. Men were fighting even now, and she wondered if one of them was Patrick. But the men looked to be about the same size, so no. He hadn’t fought yet. At least she hoped not. She did her best to catch her breath and started down the hill. By the time she reached the bottom and entered the crowd, she was exhausted. Water became a primary concern, lest she faint. But she didn’t see any anywhere. She saw someone with a mug of ale in one hand and headed for him. “Sir, please, sir …”

  The man looked at her, she recognized him as one of the squire’s tenants. “What do you want, girl?”

  “Water,” she gasped.

  He looked her up and down. “What have you been doing?”

  She reached up and touched her hair. Half of it had fallen from its pins, the other half still pinned to her head. She must look a mess. “I work for the squire, I had to run all the way …”

  “Well if you’re looking for the squire he’s in the main box overlooking the ring. Best hurry, the big fight is about to start.”

  She sucked in a breath and, her thirst forgotten, fought her way through the crowds toward the ring.

  She’d made it about halfway when the crowd began to cheer. “Oh no,” she said to herself. It was starting.

  People pressed in around her, thwarting her efforts to move forward. How was she ever going to get there in time?

  She heard a man shouting, announcing the fight, which only made the crowd cheer louder. They blocked her way, keeping her from reaching the ring. She heard him shout again, heard Patrick’s name called. The people went positively wild.

  Mary stood and stared at those around her. They began to chant, “Paddy, Paddy, Paddy.“ If she weren’t so desperate she’d be in awe.

  She continued to try to push through the crowd, but it was no use. They wouldn’t let her through. Even so, she shoved, jumped, even thought of biting the arm of the man blocking her path when she heard, “Mr. Mulligan would like to say a few words before we start!”

  The crowd’s cheers were deafening. She was jostled here and there when she heard the familiar voice. “I’m looking for a lass!” Patrick shouted. “Mary O’Brien, are ye here?”