Tall prairie grass waved in the breeze, its dry brown tufts bending like short nods. He pulled up a blade and chewed the soft end, his mouth watering at the tart juice. The town buildings came into view, and he glanced over the rooftops, wondering which one was Odette’s destination. Montana Territory was a long way from New York, but she’d mentioned visiting an aunt and uncle. The two words sent his thoughts in the direction of family and how long since he’d written to his mother. He kept hoping he’d have news of a big fight, of the one championship bout that could redeem the family name. But that match never materialized.
As he approached his personal train car parked on a stub near the main line, he spotted Fyodor coming from the opposite direction, waving his hat over his head.
“I’ve been looking for you.” Fyodor drew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his forehead. “Where were you?”
Viktor lifted his leather case. “Playing my gudok in the woods.”
Fyodor’s eyebrows pinched then he looked up and grinned. “I’ve been down at the office of the Sweetwater Springs Herald. The publisher is Percival Lyle, a true fight fan. He wants to interview you.”
Viktor paused with one foot on the bottom metal step. “An interview?”
“Any mention of the fight is good, and as an interview, the coverage is free. Think of the publicity.”
“What will that publicity get me? A championship fight better than this exhibition tour?” Viktor grimaced at the whine in his voice.
“How many times do we have to go over this?” A frown scrunched the manager’s brow. “You can’t show your face in a big fight. Not after what happened in Madison Square Garden.” He glanced around at the immediate area. “We figured at least three years had to pass after Mickey Macklin’s death before you can resurface on the regular circuit. That’s why we adopted the ‘Boris the Bear’ persona. The crowds love it.” He linked his hands behind his back and paced. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of running interviews sooner.”
Viktor fought back a shudder. Appearing in the ring wearing a bearskin and roaring always seemed so undignified. But Fyodor kept them booked, even if the venues were always in a westward direction and often in small towns like this one. “You’re not worried about my name being in the paper?” What if the news got back to his family in Philadelphia? Would they still be proud of him?
“That’s the beauty.” The manager slapped his fist into the opposite palm. “You’ll do the interview as Boris. Be sure to play up the mystique of your persona.” He squinted. “Do you want me to come along?”
An audience of one for this interview was enough. He shook his head. “When?” Speaking as Boris would test the limits of his acting ability. He might not understand Fyodor’s methods but over the years, he’d learned the man knew how to get results.
“Now. He sets the type and prints the papers tomorrow night.”
Viktor glanced at the sun’s position in the sky. “I wanted to get in a run before dark.”
Fyodor clapped a hand on Viktor’s shoulder. “The run can wait. Do the interview.” He lifted the instrument case and reached into his pocket for the door key. “Let me put this away. The office is on Main Street. You can’t miss it.”
Tossing down the blade of grass, Viktor turned and strode away from the railroad tracks. Maybe the publisher would have only a few questions, and he could still run. The wooden storefronts with a second story façade all looked the same. He scanned the business names painted on the windows until he found the right one. Opening the door and stepping inside was like crossing into another world. An acrid scent tickled his nose. Probably ink and solvent. Books lined a shelf that ran the length of one wall. A desk overflowed with piled newspapers and sheaves of lined paper. Boxes stacked into a tower behind the big press where a thin man stood bent over, his hands inside the machine.
The dark-haired man straightened, pulled a stained rag from his back pocket, and wiped his hands. “What can I do for you?”
“Fyodor Stanislav says you want to interview me.” Those words weren’t flamboyant enough to belong to Boris.
A grin spread his mouth, and he pushed a thigh against the swinging gate in the short picket fence separating the main section of the room from the work area. “The fighter? I sure do.” He waved a hand toward the desk. “Have a seat. Just shove off whatever’s occupying a chair. Give me a moment or two to wash my hands.” He disappeared into a small room to the side.
Viktor crossed the floor and glanced at the desk that resembled a collapsed haystack. No order could be seen in the mess, and he shuddered. He preferred to know exactly where his belongings were. He lifted a pile of books then glanced around for an empty spot to put them. Not seeing one, he sat and held them, tilting the stack to read the titles. Biographies of military men and the first multi-millionaire, John Jakob Astor.
Footsteps approached. “Here, I’ll take those.” The publisher swept away the books and dropped them onto the floor behind his chair. Then he stuck out his hand. “Percival Lyle, but call me Percy.”
Viktor clasped the thin hand and shook. Then he settled into the chair, crossing a leg over the opposite knee. “Boris.” Uttering that moniker sounded wrong. His whole body tensed, forcing a decision. “Actually, I’m Viktor Andrusha, but my manager wants the interview done using my stage name. If that’s all right?”
“Perfectly fine.” Percy folded an open newspaper and pulled a notepad to the top layer. “Let’s get some general information out of the way first.”
Over the next few minutes, Viktor provided details about the length of his career, his win/loss statistics, the traveling schedule, and his workouts. He made sure to keep his answers short and full of bravado, just the way Boris would.
Nodding, Percy scratched a pen on the paper. “I’m fascinated with the reasons why men engage in their chosen professions. What led you into this line of work?”
Do I reveal the family connection? Viktor gripped his hands around his raised knee. “When you’re big, people expect you to be physical.”
“So, you were challenged and learned to defend yourself?”
“Had to.” That, and having a father who wanted to use his muscle-bound son as an income source. The father who became a pawn to a Russian gang and started fixing fights.
“You started out as a bare-knuckle boxer, isn’t that right?” Percy dipped the nib in the inkwell and tapped it.
“As a youth, I fought Russian style.” The statement reminded him of a gangly youth striving to find his place in the boxing world.
Percy’s light brows wrinkled. “How’s that different?”
“No footwork or dodging, only punching.” He slapped a hand on his hard stomach, making a solid thwap. “You learn to withstand hits.”
The publisher’s eyes widened. “You just stood in one place and got hit?”
“Arms could block but yes, we couldn’t move. Fighters take turns and can hit anywhere.” He cringed at the memories of those days and how glad he’d been when his father moved the fights out of Hell’s Kitchen and into more prosperous areas.
“I took a few boxing courses during my college years.” Percy squared his thin shoulders. “Of course, I was in a lower weight class, and our instructor made sure we used safety equipment.” He circled the ivory end of the tapered pen in the air. “I can only imagine you have other bruises—on your chest or torso. Do you worry about such injuries as I see on your face? Or the toll that years of injuries have taken?”
The truth? Or what he thought the newspaper man wanted to hear? “Boris is strong like bear.” That quote ought to satisfy Fyodor. He crooked an elbow and flexed his muscles, straining the cotton shirt sleeve against his bicep. “Bruises fade before next fight.” The statement flashed an image of Odette’s earnest face through his mind. He wondered what she’d think of his Boris persona. A niggle of doubt itched his conscience.
“Mister Stanislav mentioned the possibility of an all-comers round. How do you approach
that type of event?”
Viktor lowered his arm and sat back. He’d hoped the option wouldn’t be on the schedule. But the opportunity often brought in more money. Facing off against an arrogant farmer always made him feel like a bully. “We make entertainment. If men want a chance in the ring, who are we to deny?”
The publisher leaned back in his chair. “One last question, sir. Why? What drives you to enter that roped arena with the goal of gaining supremacy against another human being with violence?”
Viktor did his best to hide his quick intake of breath. Had Percy deceived when he started the interview with admiration? Or was a man of intellect simply dismayed by a profession involving brute strength? “To triumph. To prove oneself as the best.” He shot to his feet and stuck out his hand. “Now, Boris must race against the fading sun.”
The publisher’s last question haunted Viktor as he jogged across the prairie in the chilly air, his right arm pressed against his aching ribs. As he jumped rope on the portable platform they carried as part of the equipment. As he curled the weighted iron bars toward his shoulders. Why did he fight? The fact Viktor couldn’t produce an answer that was any more significant than the one Boris provided didn’t sit well. Was he ready to explore the deeper reason?
Across the valley, only a dark outline of the western mountains jutted into the indigo sky. Light spilling from inside the train car beckoned. He could see Fyodor and O’Leary moving near the Franklin stove that served for both heating and cooking. Supper would soon be ready. Heaving out a breath, he did five more curls with each arm then put the bars into the box attached to the car’s undercarriage and went inside to wash up.
Long after his companions retired to their bunks in the small sleeping room for the night, Viktor sat at the built-in desk, nursing a last cup of coffee. Before him on the fold-down surface spread sheets of paper listing the good and bad aspects of his profession. Concerns he hadn’t often thought about came boiling to the surface—the transience of criss-crossing the countryside, the feast or famine of his income, constant exercise, his restricted diet. His mouth watered at the thought of his mama’s apple cake with gooey frosting. How he missed fresh pastries.
Surely, the number one reason on his list—to return pride to the family name—was a laudable one and outweighed the negatives. But fighting as Boris did nothing to reclaim that honor. Would his body remain strong and his skills sharp long enough for him to compete as himself? On a fresh sheet of paper, he started a letter to his mother, forcing his words to be newsy and upbeat. The lists he folded into quarters. Then he pressed a recessed square at the back of the pen tray, dropping down a thin panel eight inches square. He held the papers against the back wall and moved the panel into place. He wanted to remember the feelings this process dredged up without the risk of his roommates finding the lists.
To his sister Irina, the artist forced to work as a seamstress, he wrote of the colorful sunsets and the changing leaves on the trees by a creek. To his sister Anya, who had always been intrigued by maps, he included as many details as he could remember about mountain ranges, the names of highest peaks, and distances between big cities.
Although he missed them all, he told himself they were better off without his presence. For now, his money would suffice. After rummaging through the desk drawer, he found a bottle of mucilage. He held the bottle over the top of the oil lamp to liquefy the crystallized glue and the light amber color reminded him of Odette. She would be a nice memory to think of when he was lonely. What he had to rank higher than a passing acquaintance was the need to re-dedicate himself to his job and not allow himself to be distracted by anything…or anyone.
Two days later, he stood in the mercantile as the store owner figured the postage on his three letters home. His whole body ached from the strain of yesterday’s workout. But surprisingly, his ribs felt better from being wrapped with the herb. And from three doses of the thick green liquid Odette prepared. Guilt stabbed him anew that he hadn’t met her as promised. He’d been in the middle of a shadow boxing session, although Fyodor berated him for not focusing like he should. How could he concentrate when he’d prefer to be sitting in a meadow with a pretty blonde? Instead, he ran along the creek two hours after their agreed-upon time and spotted what she’d left on their fallen log.
“That’ll be two bits for each letter. So, the total is seventy-five cents.” Mister Cobb penciled the numbers into the upper corners of the envelopes.
Viktor jerked his attention back to the matter at hand. As he dug into his trouser pocket for coins, he heard the bell on the door jingle.
“Afternoon, Miss Hildebrand.”
Viktor’s hand froze, and he cut a sideways glance toward the entrance. Today, she wore a gray shawl over a green dress that if she stood closer he could see how the shade accented her eyes. A plain gray bonnet with a purple rose over her left ear covered most of her hair. His pulse sped. “Much obliged.” He dropped the coins on top of the envelopes, nodded at Mister Cobb behind the counter, and moved toward the hardware section, intending to wait until Odette left.
True to her word, at their usual time, she’d left him two jars of medicine—one a liquid and the other a salve—accompanied by dosage instructions. Weighed down by a small stone was a note with only two words, I waited. Those two words had clamped his chest tight with guilt, and hours passed before he took a full breath. Footsteps approached where he stood. The faint scent of violets teased his nose. Moving back to a far aisle made him look like a coward. He gritted his teeth and faked interest in the array of tools hanging by nails on the wall.
“Excuse me, sir. I see you have the advantage of height. Could you lift down that hammer? I appear to be too short.”
Allowing her sweet voice to soothe him for a second, he looked around to see if anyone else was nearby who might overhear them. “You’re buying a hammer?”
“I have a particularly vexing problem that needs a good whack.” She gave him a sideways glance with her lips tight.
The terse note to her voice made him wince. Great restraint kept him from stepping away. She was a nurse, so she wouldn’t really hit someone with a hammer. After his midnight written confessional, he convinced himself he wasn’t good for much and that she was better off not risking her reputation. Reaching down a hammer, he handed her the tool and watched her face.
Odette hefted it a couple of times then gave a short swing—with the head pointed upward. “This might do the trick.” Then she tilted her head and narrowed her gaze. “But my problem is that I needed to see you yesterday. For my medical experiment. And you reneged on a promise.”
When was the last time anyone needed him? Her words burrowed into his chest, and he held them close to his heart. “Sorry, but—”
“Don’t apologize but meet me in an hour.” She met his gaze and smiled. “I wish to return your notebook in our private spot.”
The glint in her eyes caught him off guard. Rather than studying his healing bruises, she looked only into his eyes. “That’s not a—”
“You folks need any help?” Mister Cobb stood near the curtain to the back storeroom.
“No, thank you, Mister Cobb. I just asked this kind gentleman for help reaching down this tool.” She crossed in front of Viktor to walk to the counter and again pantomimed a couple of swings. “I believe it’s a bit heavy for what I need. Do you have something that weighs less? Perhaps a hammer built for a lady’s hand?”
The thin man scratched his chin. “Can’t say I’ve heard of such a thing.”
“Never mind. My aunt sent me for…”
Chuckling, Viktor walked the perimeter of the store toward the exit. He doubted he could have kept up the pretense of them being strangers much longer. Being in her presence again punched a huge hole in his resolve to focus only on his boxing.
**
Odette didn’t know if she wanted to hear the reason for his absence yesterday. Why make herself any more irritated? She must not have been specific enough in her need f
or a specimen…oh, that word brought to mind his splendid physique. A subject she fought against thinking about while anticipating his arrival. Thankfully, Aunt Iola had kept both her and Lettie occupied with sewing the quilt pieces. Today, her fingertips ached from multiple pinpricks.
A twig cracked, and a bird flapped away overhead.
Gasping, she spun then breathed out a sigh of relief when she recognized Viktor’s bulky silhouette moving toward her. Crossing paths with him at the mercantile had been a stroke of luck. No other place in town allowed for a casual conversation that didn’t require a chaperone. Her parents had given up on that requirement a couple of years ago. Aunt Iola, however, took her role as family protector quite seriously.
“Afternoon, Miss Hildebrand.” He removed his black felt hat.
“Viktor, we are past the formalities.” She made an effort to soften her too-practical tone. “I appreciate that you came.” From her reticule, she pulled out his notebook and extended it. The extra night allowed her to copy a couple of his poignant poems so she could commit them to memory. “Thank you for the loan.”
“Da.” He cleared his throat. “I should offer an explanation for not coming yesterday.”
His gaze skittered to the side and he tapped the hat against his thigh. His nervousness made her uncomfortable, and she wished for the easy conversation they’d earlier shared. She lowered herself to sit on the log. “I’m listening.”
“Now that I’m here and I see you again, my words are inadequate. They don’t show what I did in any kind of good light.”
So, he did care that his action was rude. She patted a spot on the log a foot or so away. “Sit. I imagine you’re a busy man, preparing for Saturday’s fight.”
“True.” He set down his instrument case and sat.
“You must schedule your time to gain the most amount of practice.”
“Correct, but—”
Montana Sky: In His Corner (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Entertainers of The West Book 6) Page 5
