"What is that?"
"I need you to take me to see him fight."
He was already shaking his head, firm decision in his eyes. "It is no place for a woman, Odessa. Those rings-invariably, they are on the wrong side of town and attended by people that are not of polite society."
"You think I am so naive? I am well aware it will be shocking-
He was shaking his head again.
"Please. I need to know what drives my brother. I need to know Dominic, see him, in ways ... my family has never taken the time to do that with him. The hopes of four dead brothers rest on his shoulders. Perhaps that is what drives him to fight. I think if I could see him there-"
"Odessa, no. It would be ungentlemanly of me to escort you to such a place."
"Helen Anderson has gone. She will take me if you will not."
He scoffed and shook his head, rising in agitation. "You must not." His eyes held fear now, concern for her. "Women do not belong there. You should not go there unescorted. If Mrs. Anderson wishes to risk that, so be it. But you, Odessa ..." He reached out and took her hands.
The feel of his strong fingers around hers made her heart pound. They felt sure, right. Slowly, slowly, she lifted her eyes to meet his.
"Please, Bryce. Take me to see him. Just once."
He winced as if she had cut him, then stared at her again. "You'll see I'm right, Odessa. I've seen men in the fighting ring before. They're there because something else has driven them to it. Power or anger, usually. It's not what God wants of us. You'll feel that. It's evil, attempting to pummel another until he's almost dead. This will not be two boys playing, wrestling. This will be two men intent on killing each other. You and I ... we've talked about knowing death, sensing it when it edges near. Are you really ready to walk into death's parlor again? Invite it close?"
Odessa put her fingers over her mouth, listening. "Nic wouldn't kill a man."
"He wouldn't intend to. But every time he steps into that ring, he flirts with it."
"That's why ... this is why I need to go. I need to see it for myself. Understand it." She looked up at Bryce with pleading eyes. "He's my brother."
"I've warned you," he said, sorrow invading every syllable. "You can't say I didn't."
"How many times must I warn you?" said the man. "Don't come here unless you have good news for me. Again and again you appear, telling me you're no closer to the silver than you were before!"
"The sheriff from Westcliffe is about often. It's as if he's on to us."
The first man scoffed at that. "Sheriff Olsbo? He has no idea what's happening in his backyard."
"He's suspicious enough that we need to keep a scout out while we try to excavate the miserable DeChant mine in secret. It slows our progress. We need outright access. I thought you were going to deal with the DeChant woman so we could buy the property outright."
"She'll let the disease take her in time. It won't be long. With McAllan there, we have to tread carefully. He knows too much about his neighbors. It'll be beneficial when he sees Amille failing, and then possibly die, under no suspicious circumstances." He paused to narrow his eyes at the smaller man, remembering his sloppy work with O'Toole. "It'll ease any concerns that Odessa might have planted with her visions of that night. We need him to engage back into his life at the ranch, accept our man's offer for O'Toole's land, and quietly go our own ways. But if he's suspicious, that's not going to happen."
"Can't the consumption get him, too?"
"Too obvious. Besides, he's regaining his health. Soon he'll be on his way, heading back to the ranch. It'll be best if all goes as planned. Otherwise, we'll just have to find a way to kill him, far away from the mines, so there is no association. Then we pick up the land when it comes up for auction. But that's liable to be far more expensive."
"It'll be worthless unless we can find the entrance."
The taller man considered Odessa St. Clair again. "Maybe O'Toole left Miss St. Clair something about how to find the mine. Any luck in talking to the attorney?"
"He said the envelope was sealed before O'Toole gave it to him. He never knew what was inside."
"So she might hold the key to our lock."
"And she's not faring so well that a relapse would be suspect."
"No." He grinned at his companion. "As long as we move in the next few weeks, she could be just another of the sanatorium's rare losses. But first," he said, waving a finger at the man, "we resolve the DeChant issue."
They borrowed a carriage that evening and went to pick up Helen, who kept the conversation lively all the way into Colorado City. Posters were everywhere, touting the night's fight pitting Shorty St. Clair against Mustang Mex. "It's good we're here early," Helen said. "Might not be able to see had we come a bit later."
They entered a saloon, an establishment Odessa had never been before. "Stay right behind me," Bryce said, taking her hand. "I mean it. Right behind me."
Odessa nodded in agreement. She liked the way his hand, dry and warm, covered her own. Hers felt cold and clammy as she looked about, two men at the bar nearly falling off their stools they were so drunk. Prostitutes, sitting on men's laps. Men with guns at their hips, ready to draw and fire. Men, staring after her in naked curiosity. This, this was Dominic's world?
He didn't know they were coming, and in fact, he and his sisters had never openly discussed how he afforded fine new suits, trading in their carriage for a newer model, buying furniture for their cottage. Father had provided for them, and the bookshop was faring all right, but his extravagance was beyond that.
Odessa realized that her silence had been a form of tacit approval, that she hadn't felt strong enough to wrangle with Dominic and keep an upper hand on her consumption. She wished now she had pressed Nic about it. Asked him how dangerous it was. Asked if there wasn't another way to prove himself or accomplish whatever he was after.
Helen stopped at a back door and handed a burly man some cash. He waved them in. Odessa struggled to see in the dark, and nearly choked on the heavy smoke that filled the room like a storm cloud. In the center was a platform, surrounded by a rope strung between four posts. They got to about halfway back, men shoving on either side of them, pushing them like a wave upon the sea, lifted, moved, set down again.
Helen turned to her, shouting to be heard as the crowd neared capacity and a drum sounded. "Remember, you can't let him see you," she cried. "Trust me, it will distract him, and that will be dangerous. Tell him tomorrow, if you must, that you were here. But not tonight."
Odessa nodded, her heart pounding. She tried to take a lungful of air and coughed against the smoke. Doctor Morton would throttle her and Bryce for subjecting their fragile lungs to such abuse, but the decision had been made. She was here and would see it through. It was so crowded, Odessa could not leave now unless all the men passed her over their heads and from the room. She took some comfort in the fact that Helen had come here before and lived to breathe another day.
A low rumble, a cheer, emanated from the far corner, gathering in intensity. Everyone shouted as the fighters took the stage, the ring, each dressed in shirts rolled up at the sleeve and light pants. Dominic was barefoot.
Odessa gasped, sizing up his opponent, Mustang Mex, even as her brother did the same. He was much larger than Dominic, lithe and rippling with strength. She knew her brother preferred the big, lumbering men, men who could not move as quickly as he. That was who he always took on in his brawling in Philadelphia, and it matched the description of the three he had fought on the streets of Colorado Springs.
But it was Dominic that caught her attention. Never had she seen him appear so intense, so focused. And yet his eyes were light, free, taking in his opponent from head to toe, watching him move, almost smiling in invitation.
Odessa felt sick inside. Nic was more alive than she'd ever seen him, but he was undeniably flirting with death. This was what Bryce had warned her of. This feeling, all around them. These men intended to pummel each other until one f
ell to the floor and did not get up. And looking at them both now, Odessa feared that would be her brother.
"Your brother's gone," Reid said outside Moira's new cottage door on Boulder Avenue. "I saw him ride out. Come outside and talk to me."
She said nothing, her back to the door. He pounded it again, nearly knocking her forward with the force of his blows. "Moira? Moira! Please, Moira. Things ... things haven't been right between us since that night at the Glen. I just want you back. You've made me sorry over it. Now open this door."
He pounded at it again, paused, then walked off the side of the porch.
Moira ran to the far wall, wincing as she thumped against it, panting, even as she saw Reid's shadow form in the window beside her as he peered in.
"Open the door, Moira," he said lowly. "The more you make me appear the fool, the worse it will be. This isn't right. You know it isn't."
Moira stayed where she was.
"Is it that you auditioned for the opera? I know all about that. The general told me. I know you love to sing. I'll learn to accept it." He put his hand against the window. "It's just that it's hard on me, Moira, having you up there, pretty as can be. All the men can't help but want you for themselves. And without us married, they don't know you're mine. It's hardly proper."
Moira bit down on her lip to keep from screaming. She wanted nothing more than to be far away from the sheriff, safe, and here he was, liable to break through that flimsy glass window at any moment. She could tell by his tone that he had begun to doubt she was inside, speaking mostly to himself, wondering if she wasn't inside, where was she? He didn't want her anywhere without him. When he left town, he practically made her promise to stay home, as if she were to sit here, pining for him, night after night. His shadow moved away from the window. He was giving up. For now. It was time to end the farce. She could act onstage but she could not continue this any longer. She could not continue to duck and cower, hiding from Reid in her own home, her own home! She had the general on her side now. And the general could keep Reid in line, if necessary.
Taking a deep breath, she moved forward and opened the door. Reid, almost at the front gate, turned at the sound and took a few steps forward. "Thank you for coming out, Moira," he said, hat in hand. "Please. Can we sit?"
She looked out to the street and saw the reason for the change in his demeanor. A couple walked past, arm in arm. "Certainly, Reid."
They sat down on a front porch swing. "Reid, it pains me to tell you that my brother and I feel this courtship is not in line with our father's wishes, especially since you have not even made his acquaintance."
He stilled and Moira could feel the waves of tension, disbelief emanating from him.
"Is ... is there another?"
"No, Reid. There is to be no other. That was my father's wish."
"Then there is no cause to end it," he rushed on. "Courtship is an exercise in discovering if a man and a woman are right for each other. Is this about your singing?" He rose and paced before her. "I said I'd find a way to deal with that-"
"No, Reid. This is about you and me. And my father. And how we must now part, painful as it may be."
He hovered, utterly still, absorbing her words. She could feel his desperation sink into anger. "I'm afraid it's not a choice, Moira." His voice was low.
"Not a choice?" She rose, shaking in a rage that surmounted her fear. "It most certainly is!"
"Is it your brother? He told you to cut me loose, didn't he?"
"No, Reid, this is my decision."
"He never did like me; we got off on the wrong foot, with his brawling and all. But that's hardly my fault. You need to give me another chance. You just haven't seen it yet, seen why we're supposed to be together."
She turned toward the door. "Good night, Reid." She had opened the door a few inches when he shut it again, his arm over her shoulder. "No woman turns me down," he said in her ear.
A shiver ran down Moira's back. She took a deep breath, summoning up her courage, and eyed him from the side, swallowing a sharp retort.
"Moira, all I'm asking for is some time. The summer. If you decide it's not right come autumn, I'll let you go."
"And if I don't give you the summer?"
He dropped his arm and leaned back, waiting on her to turn and face him.
She did.
"Summer's a fine time in Colorado. We'll have some fun. You'll see what a good man I am, what you'll be missing if you spurn me."
"Reid, answer me. If I don't give you the summer?"
"Don't go that route, Moira. Don't do it. Bad roads lead to bad consequences. I'm offering you a good road, the high road. Will you take it?"
She paused, her confidence faltering. Just what was he threatening? "I'll consider it."
"Good," he said, clearly relieved. "Good. I'll see you tomorrow then." He bent down and kissed her cheek, a kiss she stiffly received. "Now get on in your house so I know you're safe."
Dominic danced around the newcomer, sizing him up. He particularly loved these moments just prior to a fight. He imagined himself an Olympian wrestler, wide awake, alive, his own man, skin glistening, testing his strength against another.
He moved left then right, observing how this Mexican moved, anticipating his strengths, his weaknesses. Right-handed, he noted, as the young man nervously wiped his brow, staring at him as intently as Dominic stared at him.
The crowd disappeared. He could barely hear them. It was as if his ears closed up, the closer to the fight he drew. He took note of his heartbeat, strong and steady. Tonight he would clean up. This man was strong, but no stronger than he. And he had the greater will, the more fervent desire to win. For the money.
For himself.
See me, Father, he whispered silently through the dark room, as if his words could reach his father in Philadelphia. I am not a bookshop merchant. I am not a publisher. I am a fighter. This is me.
The man who ran the fighting ring raised both of their hands. It was then that Dominic happened to glance down and see Mustang Mex's pocket bulge, as if filled with coins. He frowned. Who came out fighting with coins in their pocket?
The bell rang then. He threw a good punch, and his opponent came back hard, striking him twice. Nic pretended to wave as if already going down, then feinted to the right, driving his left fist into the man's belly and then his deadly right from across his body, sending the Mexican spinning.
Dimly, he heard a woman scream and the crowd roar, as if listening to them through a pond. His opponent came after him, and he shoved the sounds from his mind.
The Mexican drove him hard, pummeling his chest and belly, moving at just the last second every time to avoid Nic's punches.
It wasn't until he struck Dominic's jaw with a left he didn't see coming that Nic thought again of the coins in his pocket. It was no bag of coins. This man had a brass rod in his fist. Not knuckles. Knuckles would be seen by others and the fight would be declared Nic's. But a rod could be hidden. He'd heard of it being done. And the stiff consequences served ... to the loser.
He glanced at the other man in the ring with them, the owner, but the Mexican hit him then again, sending him spinning. As he went down, he clearly heard a woman scream. He knew that voice. His eyes scanned the crowd.
It couldn't be. Not a woman. Here. Not Odessa.
His eyes locked on hers. There, in the middle of the crowd. Beside Bryce, who had his arm around her. She was crying, weeping. Sobbing! Did she not know he was good at this? Could no one in his family see, see what he was capable of? On his own? As a man?
With a growl he rose and went after the Mexican again, managing to land a fierce left hook. But then the young man grinned, lip bleeding, and came back at him, striking him once, twice, and three times with the same fist full of brass.
Dominic went down, hard.
And the world went black.
Reid Bannock leaned against the wall beside the back door of the saloon. He grinned up at the last full spring moon, wide and bright
as it shone over his city, his fine city, in the distance. He disliked being here in Colorado City, but business was business.
The young Mexican exited, followed by two other burly, finely dressed Mexican men. Seeing Reid, the man nodded to the others to return inside. They did so without comment. The man stood there, black hair soaked with glistening sweat, air escaping his nostrils in twin, steaming streams.
"It's done?" Reid asked.
"Done," he said, dropping a wavy brass rod in his fist.
Reid raised it up, catching a bit of blood in the moonlight. Dominic's blood. Moira would know the truth of his words, that bad roads led to bad consequences. Nic sure knew it now. He'd tried to warn Nic, dissuade him from this path, but the man had refused to acknowledge it and choose a new road. Sometimes the only way to change a stubborn man's path was to make it impossible for him to continue. Reid sighed. The St. Clairs were merely young and inexperienced. They needed someone older to look up to, follow. Someone like him. It was good he had been here when they arrived. Beneficial for all of them. Another year with them and all would be in order.
He handed the man a wad of bills and turned away, fading into the crowd on the street, heading back to the city he loved, whistling, whistling for the first time in a long while. He had just done his future brother-in-law a favor, ending his fighting career. Now Dominic could settle into the life his father had intended for him, as a respectable bookshop merchant of Colorado Springs. That was a man well suited to be the town sheriffs brother-in-law. Not some man sneaking into the night. Why, Moira would not be able to sleep at night, worrying over him. Reid couldn't tolerate that.
No, he wanted her every thought to be about him. She needed to look to him for protection, guidance, wisdom. Not anyone else. And they had just taken one big step closer to realizing that dream.
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