Chasing Adventure

by Linda Carroll-Bradd

  Why were those men here? Harte was about to ask if everything was all right when he observed friendly hugs and handshakes that appeared well received.

  The other boxer, O’Leary, stood off to one side and jumped rope.

  Amidst the rumble of conversations and laughter, Harte walked a circuit of the cowboys set at points like a misshapen square along the boundary rope, giving last-minute instructions. Two guards stood ten feet from the platform and the other two at opposite sides at the back of the crowd. He reminded the men every quarter hour he’d initiate the shifts in positions that moved them around the perimeter clockwise. Not only would the change keep the men on their toes, but it also provided different viewing angles. Might as well allow the opportunity for each to see a bit of the competition.

  A glance at his pocket watch told him he needed to meet Mister Stanislav at the space assigned as the entrance. Next to a gap in the perimeter rope, the promoter sat in a chair beside the rented wagon’s tailgate which served as the entrance.

  “Good, you’re here.” Stanislav closed the metal box and set the chair into the wagon bed.

  “Ready to get the money secured, sir.” Upon his arrival, Harte hoisted himself into the driver’s place on the bench and spotted the approach of a fast-moving buggy with three occupants that bounced over the prairie. “Looks like you’ve got a late arrival.”

  Mister Stanislav climbed into the wagon seat and lifted a hand to shade his eyes. “That’s the newspaper editor, Percival Lyle. I issued a press pass for him and two guests. We can circle around to the enclosure.”

  Harte drove the team around the edge of the crowd and parked at the back side of the competitor’s warm-up area. He helped the promoter carry the moneybox to the trunk that had held the sporting equipment. Once the money was secured under lock and key, he relaxed a bit. Now, the task would be to maintain control of the crowd. The evidence of liquor bottles being passed around meant keeping the drunks in line was Harte’s next priority. Just a routine deputy’s chore on a Saturday. Necessary, but not mentally taxing.

  The sharp strike of a bell quieted the crowd. The promoter emerged from behind the hung blanket, climbed between the ropes, and waved his hands over his head. “Welcome, one and all. This afternoon, you will be entertained in the manly art of fisticuffs by two worthy opponents. Shane O’Leary, the Irishman who hails from County Cork, wears the green jersey.” He swept an arm toward the blanket.

  The crowd cheered.

  A muscled man with wavy, reddish hair jumped into the ring and clasped his gloved hands over his head. His ears were large and stuck out from his head.

  “And…” Holding up his hands, Stanislav walked to the platform closest to the crowd. “And, our headliner, Russian Boris the Bear.”

  People stood on tiptoes and cheered louder.

  A blond man with a broad, flat nose appeared wearing a bearskin cape. Once he climbed into the ring, he made a circuit, pumping a gloved fist in the air. Then he tossed the cape onto a rope, exposing a bright blue jersey.

  Stanislav had the opponents touch gloves as they stood in the middle of the platform. “Now, gentlemen, this is to be a fair and stand-up fight with no head-butting.” He glanced between the boxers, receiving their nods. Then he stepped back. “Begin.”

  From where he stood at the back, Harte couldn’t hear much of the actual fight because of the roar of the crowd. But he watched as the men traded punches in what he assumed was a well-rehearsed routine so neither boxer got hurt. Fifteen minutes went by.

  Harte sent Peter to the second position, while he took his place at the farthest post from the ring. He gazed over the crowd, noting everyone faced forward as they focused on the boxing platform. No head ducked or darted among those standing so he didn’t have to worry about pickpockets.

  While scanning the crowd, he let one part of his mind wander to the news from the telegram the sheriff shared last night. Michael Morgan, who owned a small town a couple days’ ride away, needed another guard at the gold mine. The job came with a bunk in the company’s boardinghouse and meals. Sounded like an ideal place to contemplate what came next in his career.

  A chant from the crowd caught his attention, and he watched as a mountain of a man stepped into the ring.

  “Reinhart, Reinhart.”

  Hearing the familiar name, Harte figured the all-comers open challenge part of the event had started. He’d seen enough of Reinhart’s blacksmithing to know he could prove a worthy adversary.

  Not too far away at the back side of a wagon, a petite blonde woman paced, wringing her hands.

  Strange. If the sport upset her, why would the woman make the effort to attend? With the next post change, Harte had a straight line of sight to the platform. Those standing at the restraining rope had inched forward and pushed out all slack. But the rest of the crowd looked in control.

  A ray of waning sunlight shone on a bobbing black feather in the front row. Couldn’t be. Narrowing his gaze, he took a step closer to the platform’s perimeter and glanced down the line of a half dozen folding chairs forming a front row. Sure enough, he’d recognized Miss Alviss, the intriguing Easterner.

  Under the feather in her bonnet, Miss Alviss leaned forward, her mouth agape an inch, her eyes wide. As the competition played out about ten feet away, she alternated between watching the action and scribbling into a notebook.

  At her side, Mister Lyle, a thin man with dark hair, wrote even faster in his book. Next to him sat a dark-haired woman who held a lace handkerchief to her mouth.

  The newspaper editor had a professional reason for recording the event. But what was hers? Even from this distance, he noted Miss Alviss’s interest in the bare-chested men who pummeled one another.

  While the main bout had probably been planned step for step and punch for punch by the two men who traveled together, the all-comers portion was unscripted and unpredictable. All the more reason to keep an eye on the crowd, but Harte couldn’t fight his desire to watch the full range of reactions that displayed on her pretty face.

  Miss Alviss grimaced and frowned and cringed, but she never looked away from the fisticuffs.

  The wet thud of a hard hit to flesh sounded followed a second or two later by a solid mass hitting the platform.

  A loud groan rippled throughout the crowd, and the audience surged forward, shaking fists in the air.

  Knowing what would happen next, Harte jumped into motion before the restraining rope gave way, his focus on Miss Alviss. Biting back a curse, he elbowed through the irate boxing fans who yelled and booed, fighting to reach her before the crowd trampled her.

  Miss Alviss leapt to her feet, her gaze fixed on the headliner, Boris, who’d been knocked flat to the platform.

  Harte glanced at the downed fighter who didn’t look like he would rise. The favorite had fallen, and the crowd displayed its anger. He shouldered aside a man who stabbed the air with a cigar.

  “Let me through.” The short blonde who’d been pacing at the back of the crowd pushed past Harte, hoisted herself to the platform, and crawled across the boards to the downed fighter.

  Chaos ensued. The promoter waved away the woman while at the same time yelling at Boris to get up. The blonde shook her head and knelt at the boxer’s shoulder, touching his facial wounds. Then she tore at the laces on the gloves and shot a wide-eyed look over her shoulder.

  Another man clambered into the ring and helped her remove the padded gloves.

  By now, viewers shoved their way to the edge of the platform, some yelling and pounding fists on the hard surface.

  Harte forced a path forward through the upset spectators, feeling a little like a salmon swimming upstream. His gaze stayed locked on Miss Alviss, who continued to write, apparently oblivious to the action around her. When he reached her side, he slipped an arm around Miss Alviss’s delicate shoulders and held her elbow with his free hand. “Miss, this spot is not safe. You must move away.”

  Eyes wide, she shook her head.

 
He positioned himself between her and the crowd, wincing at the elbow jabs in his back.

  “What do you think you’re doing, sir?” Miss Alviss twisted to look over her shoulder, pulling her body to the side. “Let me go. I must see what’s happening.”

  Ignoring her resistance, he tightened his hold and muscled them through the throng to the perimeter rope. “You need to be someplace safe.”

  “Stop manhandling me.” Her head whipped around, and she stilled. Then her gaze narrowed. “You.”

  “Expecting someone else?” He gritted out the question.

  “Deputy, why did you move me?” She twisted her shoulders. “As a member of the press, I claim the same right of access as Mister Lyle. Getting the facts about what has just happened and how that man is being treated are my due.”

  Blood thundered in his ears. He kept his grip tight. Rights? What was she babbling about? Didn’t the woman realize she could have been trampled? Had she even looked behind her chair to see the encroaching danger?

  “I demand you release me this instant.” Her arms went rigid at her sides. “You have absolutely no authority in this matter.”

  “As a deputy of Sweetwater Springs and head of security for this event, I have adequate authority.” He narrowed his gaze, hoping to quell her resistance.

  Miss Alviss needed to be jolted to what was happening around her. No matter that for the moment he ignored his other duties—he would not allow another innocent to be hurt. Not if he could prevent it.

  “Deputy, you will not deprive me of my rights because I’m a female.”

  A frustrating, but undeniably beautiful, female. Pushed beyond his control, he grabbed hold of her shoulders and pulled her body flush against his. Then he lowered his head and captured her mouth to get her attention. For a second, he watched her sky-blue eyes shoot wide then her eyelids fluttered closed.

  At the same moment, she relaxed and grabbed the open lapels of his wool jacket.

  The fact she didn’t push him away and slap his face shocked the dickens out of him. Her hesitant kiss bordered on shyness, possibly even virginal. Normally he preferred a woman of experience, but he couldn’t deny the allure of her soft and pliable lips that imitated his moves as he nibbled and sucked on hers.

  Her soft moan brought him to his senses. Pulling away from her head, he set her at arm’s length. He grounded his jaw tight. What in blue blazes had he just done?

  Chapter Four

  What miraculous delight had she just experienced? Although brusque at first, the kiss had gentled soon enough to steal her breath. Heart racing, Thora sagged against him, her limbs quivering. If not for the deputy’s strong hands bracing her arms, she might have slumped to the ground, as limp as steamed silk. She looked up into his dark, brooding gaze, inanely noticing cinnamon flecks in his cocoa brown eyes. The color was similar to the wonderful swirled milk and dark chocolate confection she often bought from the Swiss chocolatier on Hudson Street in lower Manhattan.

  “Miss Alviss. Are you listening?”

  His rough shake dissipated her musings and brought her back to the here and now. Scents of leather and horses and sandalwood teased Thora’s nose. Blinking fast, she grabbed the deputy’s forearms for stability, holding tight to corded muscles. She recognized they stood outdoors several feet away from lots of jostling people.

  Slowly, the sounds of the yelling crowd again registered. The cool fall air of a late afternoon chilled her skin. Oh yes, the outdoor boxing match. Thora straightened, looking for Percival Lyle, a pleasant-enough man who owned the Sweetwater Springs Herald, and his wife, Bernice. Thora had ridden with them, but where were they now?

  “Stay here on the sidelines.”

  The command in his voice brought a ready retort to her lips…until she looked past the deputy with the intense gaze and saw the flattened folding chairs lay in disarray on the ground. Her head jerked back. When had those been shoved aside?

  A mob of arguing men now stood where she’d sat only moments earlier. They clustered around the wooden platform, straining for a glimpse of the boxing champ who’d been knocked onto his back.

  “Did you hear me, miss?” The deputy bent so he looked her square in the eyes.

  Nodding, Thora straightened and released her hold on his arms, even if she still felt lightheaded. She needed to regain her scattered wits. “I heard you.” To her own ears, her voice sounded sultry. As surprising and exciting as his kiss had been, making her experience sensations she’d only ever read about, she had to… Frustration narrowed her gaze. The unpredictable man certainly muddled her thoughts.

  Again, Thora glanced around, knowing she’d missed something important. But what? Oh, the match…her research. Her intent in observing the boxing exhibition was to document what went on when two men in top physical condition matched their strength and endurance at jabbing and feinting. She’d been doing her best to jot down the action as it played out when the deputy rudely pulled her aside. Where is my notebook?

  Heart thumping fast, she gasped and scanned the ground. Her reticule still hung from her wrist, and she felt for the hard shape of her journal. But the notebook had disappeared. Panic bubbled through her body. Those notes were essential for the new story she must submit to Mister Gordon by next week. This submission would be quite different from her other ones, and she hoped he contracted it.

  “Are you sure you’re all right, Miss Alviss?” The deputy frowned as his gaze roved her face. “You seem a bit…distracted.”

  “Of course, I’m distracted.” Her body tensed. She refused to admit how the man had addled her. “You pushed me from the spot where I was conducting important research.” Stepping to the side, she intended to get around him. She scanned the ground for her precious journal, but all she saw were boots and trouser legs. “Now, my very important notes are missing. I must retrieve them.”

  “No.” He shot out an arm to block her path. “Tell me what they look like. You’re not heading back into the middle of that mob.”

  The concern ringing from his words caught her attention. Sucking in a breath, she glanced at his frowning face. Beneath his gruff exterior, he truly was looking out for her welfare. A calm feeling enveloped her. “Navy blue cover with the initials TLA in gilt letters at the lower corner. Although in actuality, it’s probably the only notebook on the ground. I just hope the stampeding mass has not ruined it.” Again, she scanned the rocky dirt and trampled weeds.

  “Let me brave the crowd to locate your notebook.”

  When he moved away, Thora realized how his robust form had hidden her from the melee of agitated sports fans. Now, she stood alone and unprotected. Twice while she waited, she was forced to step back to avoid being swept into the churning midst. Tension filled her body as she avoided the men from whom irritation over the boxing upset rolled like a high-energy wave.

  Thora raised her fingers to her still-tingling lips. She’d been kissed in public—by a man she’d met three days earlier. Her pulse kicked up. Oh goodness, had their kiss been on display to hundreds of people?

  Shifting, she glanced past the nearby men to see if anyone looked her way. Had that odious man ruined her reputation? An image of another lecture on proper behavior delivered in Mother’s sitting room passed across her mind. But no one seemed particularly interested in her. For that, she was thankful.

  As well as the fact she was a new arrival, and no one knew her connection to a well-known society family in New York City. The exception possible being Percival Lyle, but he and Bernice had disappeared from the vicinity. Since Thora couldn’t see them, she counted on the fact they hadn’t observed her with the deputy.

  On his way toward her, the deputy leaned over and claimed a chair. Stopping two feet away, he unfolded the chair and set it beside her. “Take a seat safely away from the crush.” After reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a scuffed and dirty rectangular object and extended it.

  “You found it.” Thora grasped the journal and held the slim volume to her chest. “Oh
, thank you.” Realizing she didn’t have a name to add to her gratitude, she searched her memories for when they had been properly introduced. No such occasion sprang to mind.

  Heavens, she’d allowed herself to be kissed by a stranger. Although allow was hardly the correct verb to use, since she’d had no say in the matter. Her conscience pricked. I did return his kiss and thoroughly enjoyed the sensations. “I do apologize, sir, but I don’t know your name.”

  A grin quirked his lips, and he lifted his hat a couple inches from his head. “Deputy has been fine so far. I’ve got to see to a bit of crowd control, Miss.” After a finger tap to his hat brim, he winked, and then turned, disappearing into the group of spectators still straining for the best look at the downed man.

  Thora dropped into the chair and flipped through the pages to make sure none had been ripped out. The boot prints and scuff marks on the blue leather cover would be smoothed away with a rubbing of oil. Although crinkled and streaked with brown and green marks in a few places, thankfully, all the pages appeared intact.

  “Oh, Miss Alviss, there you are.” Percival arrived at her side, his words coming in short bursts. “I apologize for my disappearance. I lost track of you in the excitement.”

  Bernice clutched his arm tight, her dark eyes shining behind spectacles that tilted on her nose.

  The word excitement only reminded Thora of her own private moments. Aware of her small stature, Thora had still been surprised at the man’s ease of lifting her aside. The only sign of strain had been a tightening of the cords in his tanned neck and a clamping of his bearded jaw. Such big hands… Heat flushed her cheeks.

  Knowing she needed to respond, Thora looked up into the journalist’s flashing blue eyes. His bowler sat askew atop his head, and his tie was partially undone. He appeared to have been in the thick of the agitated crowd. “I am fine now, sir. How about yourself? You look a bit mussed.”

  Percival glanced at himself and shrugged. “Maybe so, but I gathered all the details. The lady who pushed her way into the ring is Odette Hildebrand, a nurse from back East. I overheard her saying she suspects the boxer suffered damage to an eye.” He cast a look over his shoulder then turned and pointed. “Look, the Bear’s being carried out now. I’m hoping to interview him again soon to include his reactions in the next issue. If not, I’ll have to be satisfied with speaking to the nurse before I go to press. And, of course, Doc Cameron.”