California Caress Page 8

  While her first impulse was to warn the gunslinger, the memory of his bowie knife was still fresh enough to stop her. Unlike Luke, Drake Frazier was prepared for any surprises. Her tension ebbed, but only slightly. She wouldn’t feel completely at ease until the fight was over, no matter what the outcome.

  “Ready?” Bart asked Drake, who nodded curtly. “Well then, let’s get this over with. I got work to do.”

  Bart strode toward the circle’s empty center. Garth and Oren approached from the other side. Frazier, however, did not fall into step behind her father. Instead, he took a sharp detour to the right, until he was standing barely a handsbreadth away from a startled Hope.

  His eyes were intent as his gaze caressed her face. Was he trying to memorize her features, or, more likely, to remind her of their deal? She wondered, as she returned his gaze measure for measure.

  Wordlessly, Drake’s arm snaked out. It wrapped around her waist and back as he pulled her supple body roughly against him.

  Hope was too stunned to protest as his lips crashed down on hers. His mouth was hard and demanding, yet at the same time sweetly draining, as it extracted from her a response she fought hard not to give.

  In a heartbeat the kiss was over. Hope stumbled back a step when there was no longer a strong arm to support her trembling weight. Her fingers fluttered to her lips, her mouth still hot from the passionate kiss. Her eyes widened, confusion sparkling in their dark brown depths.

  “Incentive.” It was all the explanation Frazier offered before spinning on his heel and joining her father.

  Her surprised gaze followed the arrogant strides. She tried hard to ignore the shocked stares of those around her. Had she looked, she would have seen the spark of realization twinkling in Old Joe’s eyes.

  Garth and Bart exchanged words. When they were through, Garth stepped over to the two contestants. Gripping the wrists of both men, he raised their hands in the air and turned his attention to the crowd. A murmur of approval echoed around Hope.

  “Are yew ready?” he asked each man, his voice deep, penetrating, and thick with an odd European accent.

  Both men nodded in turn. Garth dropped their hands, then stepped back. Bart had already retraced his steps to take a place at Old Joe’s right.

  The fight had begun.

  The crowd grew quiet as the two opponents came face to face for the first time. Although both were tall, the Swede was taller. To the observant eye, both displayed equal amounts of strength and cunning.

  Each combatant judged the other carefully, measuring up his strengths and weaknesses with a cold, calculating glance. The final outcome would rely heavily on these first, fleeting impressions.

  The two men circled each other. Both crouched low, waiting for the other’s attack. They had come almost full circle when Larzdon’s meaty fist swung out in a direct path for Frazier’s jaw.

  Frazier ducked. The fist collided with empty air, missing his head by mere inches. Using the momentum of regaining his stance, he sank his fist deep in the Swede’s stomach.

  Oren grunted as the air rushed from his lungs. His body instinctively doubled at the waist. Drake sent the other fist crashing into his opponent’s jaw before he’d completely pulled back from the first. The weight of the collision sent the Swede tumbling backward in the dirt. He landed with a thud and a cloud of dust, like a giant cedar being felled.

  Although he’d gained the initiative, Frazier didn’t launch another attack. Still crouched, he backed far enough away for Larzdon to regain his footing. He stayed close enough to imply the threat of danger.

  Shaking his head, the Swede stumbled to his feet. Judging from the look on his face, he was as surprised as the rest of the men by Frazier’s tactics.

  “Come on, Frazier,” a loud voice called out from the eerily silent crowd.

  Larzdon balled his fists and brandished them in front of his wide chest. Unlike Frazier, who never stayed in the same spot for long, the Swede’s feet were firmly rooted. He was going to make his opponent come to him.

  “Got a bet on you,” another yelled, never stating exactly who the bet was on.

  Impatient to get on with it, Larzdon gave a feral growl and rushed. The thick muscle of his shoulder drove hard into Frazier’s stomach. Both men were propelled backward. They landed in the dirt, the Swede on top, straddling Frazier’s stomach as the other landed on his side. A fist drew back, and Hope flinched as it smashed into Drake’s cheek. Hope felt the wave of pain as though it were her own.

  The Swede pulled back to throw another punch. With lightning-quick reflexes, Frazier balled his fist and, cupping it with the other palm for leverage, jabbed his elbow into Larzdon’s midsection. The elbow sank into the Swede’s ribs, making Larzdon’s aim go high. His fist barely grazed Frazier’s temple. A roar of approval spread through the crowd as they made their favorite known.

  With a quick thrust, Frazier toppled the man over and rolled to his feet. Larzdon landed on his side, his weight supported by his elbow while his free hand wrapped around his fractured rib.

  Drake balanced himself on one foot, spinning on his sole as he lashed out with the other. The heel of his boot crashed into the Swede’s neck. With a strangled cry, Larzdon’s back collided with the ground.

  This time there was no chance for recovery. Drake was on him in an instant. His fist cracked into Larzdon’s jaw, then delivered a second blow to the Swede’s midsection.

  Larzdon was at a disadvantage in his position and his eyes showed that he knew it. Unless he could wrestle himself free, the fight was over. Apparently not ready to surrender to defeat, his large fists flew, occasionally landing one lucky punch for every three of Drake’s well-aimed blows.

  By the time the Swede had regained his footing, both men were soaked with blood and sweat. Breathing hard, Larzdon resorted to his initial approach. Again Drake ducked. Oren was prepared for the move. His knee came up just in time to crack into Drake’s chin.

  Hope matched Drake groan for groan as she collapsed against her brother’s arm and buried her face in his sleeve. The sound of fists hitting flesh rang clear on the late morning air and a small whimper of trepidation escaped her lips.

  “Holy shit, he’s got a knife!”

  Old Joe’s words caused icy fingers of fear to wrap around Hope’s heart. Her head snapped up and her eyes once again focused on the fight.

  Larzdon’s lips drew back in a sinister smile, made even more evil by the gaping hole that had once been a front tooth. A steady stream of blood and saliva trickled down his chin. The blade of his knife was long, slightly arched as it shimmered in the sunlight. The redwood handle was nestled firmly in the Swede’s sweaty palm.

  Draw your knife! Hope screamed her thoughts to Drake. Can't you see? He’ll skin you alive if he can. Draw-your-knife!

  Drake lithely sidestepped Larzdon’s sweeping hand. The movement was repeated. Oren thrusted. Frazier retreated far enough to avoid damage as his gaze flickered between the knife and his adversary. They reached the edge of the crowd, close enough for Hope to smell their sweat and to hear their ragged breaths. Her own was clogged somewhere in her throat, released in a gasp when Larzdon thrust again.

  Luke’s arm tightened around her waist as he stepped back with those around him, dragging her at his side.

  The Swede’s thrusts grew stronger, more confident with each swipe and retreat. He was playing with Drake, luring him toward a rock that would cause the gunslinger’s footing to stumble. Then he’d be on him in a second.

  Hope had a vision of the last fight she’d witnessed. She strained against the hindrance of Luke’s arm as she lurched for the knife concealed in Drake’s boot. If he wouldn’t use it, she would!

  As if sensing her intent, Drake stepped out of reach. Larzdon swung again, slicing a hole in the front of his opponent’s shirt. His sinister chuckle hissed through the air.

  Hope balled her hands into fists. Her stupid, useless fists! If Drake Frazier died, his blood would be on her hands. The thou
ght was like a bucket of ice water splashing her face. With an insistent shove, she broke free of her brother’s arms—only to be caught by Old Joe as she tried to bolt.

  “Let me go,” she demanded, lifting a foot and bringing it down hard on the old man’s toe. He grunted in pain, but his grip held firm. For a man of his size and stature, he was strong. “I have to help. Let me go!”

  “Why?” Old Joe barked in her ear, shifting her weight to prevent her from treading on him again. “So’s you can get yerself killed too? Ha! Not a chance!”

  A scream, hitch-pitched and eerily feminine, rippled over the hushed voices, stilling Hope in an instant. Her attention snapped to the combatants just as the sandy-haired woman collapsed into her husband’s arms.

  A smile spread over Frazier’s face as he watched Larzdon’s cheeks drain of color. The Swede’s eyes were fixed on the long, curved steel of the bowie knife, and the hand that expertly wielded it. In comparison to the gunslinger’s skill, his own attempts to end the fight looked clumsy and awkward.

  The advantage had shifted so silently and swiftly that Larzdon seemed at a loss as to how it had happened. One second he was toying with the gunman, confided of victory; the next he was forced into a position that would take every ounce of his ability to survive.

  Drake advanced, his stance low to balance any sudden attack. The Swede retreated. Again. The third time, obviously sensing defeat, Larzdon made a last-ditch attempt at victory. He lashed out with his knife, forcing all his weight behind the thrust. His aim was directed at Drake’s heart. Hope gasped, straining against Old Joe’s grasp. She opened her mouth to scream as she saw the point of the knife whip treacherously close to Drake’s chest.

  Drake’s reaction was quick. He moved out of range before the deadly weapon could do more than graze his left shoulder.

  Drake’s aim was more accurate. As the Swede recovered from the failed attack, Drake made use of his own skills. Instead of lashing out with the blade, as Hope expected, he turned into a sidekick that smashed into Larzdons’s arm. The knife was knocked out of the Swede’s hand. It flew to the ground. Drake was sitting astride the other’s waist, with the razor-sharp blade of his bowie knife pressed threateningly against Larzdon’s throat before the Swede knew what hit him. Larzdon eyed his opponent carefully, then he raised his hands in defeat.

  The fight was over. Hope’s heart pounded with relief as a roar of approval filtered through the crowd.

  A few of the men drifted forward, pulling Drake off Larzdon’s stomach and patting him on the back. Another fetched the deserted knife from the dirt. Oren Larzsdon, red-faced with defeat, slowly moved away from the buoyant crowd, rejoining his none-too-happy friends. Hope quickly lost sight of him.

  “He did it, Hope,” Luke cried gleefully, his eyes filled with childish merriment as he lifted his sister and swing her in the air. “Just like you said he would.”

  “Put me down, Luke,” Hope giggled. Her spirits soared as she scanned the crowd. The peach-colored skirt billowed in rustling folds around her ankles as Luke set her back on her feet. “I can see who won. I do have eyes, you know.” At Luke’s pout, Hope grinned and softened her voice to a tone just above exasperation. Her palm cupped her brother’s cheek. “You’re just excited. I know.” Standing on tiptoe, she planted a kiss on his craggy forehead. “But could you please stop tossing me around like a sack of potatoes?”

  “Can’t blame him for bein’ happy,” Old Joe muttered as he pulled the hat from his head and smoothed back the wispy strands beneath. The sweat on his forehead helped to plaster the wayward strands to his scalp as he settled the hat back on. “The fight coulda gone either way, as if you didn’t know. Can’t say there weren’t a few seconds when I was perty sure he Frazier was gonna lose.”

  Using her palms to flatten the folds of her skirt, she sent the old man a victorious smile. “But we didn’t,” she reminded him lightly, “we won. We get to keep our claim.”

  “Fer now.” Old Joe shrugged, turning his head to spit in the dirt. He sent a skeptical gaze with his bulging eye to Bart, who was heartily congratulating Drake Frazier.

  Hope eyed Old Joe warily. With that crooked face of his, it was hard to tell what he old man was thinking. Had he guessed the price she was willing to pay to get Drake Frazier to fight? There was no way to tell. His lopsided gaze had shifted to the men who were slowly starting to drift back to their shafts.

  Luke gave his sister’s hand an impatient tug as Old Joe sent her a meaningful look, then slowly wandered off. “Come on, Hope. Let’s go congratulate him.”

  “No,” she cried, snatching her hand back, “I mean—” she hesitated, her gaze nervously searching the men. Frazier and her father were getting closer. “You go. I have to get back. I—I have laundry to finish.”

  “Finish it later. This is more important.”

  “So is mending your shirt,” she replied with feigned good cheer. She took a quick step toward the burro. Too quick, her mind told her as she forced her feet to a slower pace. It wouldn’t do to have people see her rushing away as though she was being chased.

  “Besides,” she continued, taking another step, then another, “the candles will never harden in time if I put it off much longer.” It didn’t matter that she had hidden a dozen in reserve beneath the dresses in her trunk. Those were for an emergency. “And I still have more soap to mill.” Half a dozen bars lay next to the candles. Even stretching her imagination to its fullest, she couldn’t think of an emergency that involved soap. “You men use more in a day than the estate used in a week. I can barely keep up.”

  Luke scowled at his sister’s curt, nervous laugh. “But –“

  “And I have to start supper,” she added, almost crying with relief when she felt the burro’s coarse coat beneath her fingers. “It’ll never get made if I stand around chatting all day.” She swung on top of the coarse back and gestured impatiently to her brother. “Go on. Off with you. Send my congratulations to Frazier, then get back to work. The sooner we hit a vein and are out of this damn camp the better.”

  With a shaky smile, she turned the mule around, guiding the animal past the men who were slowly making their way back to town.

  The fingers gripping the reins trembled, but Hope passed the involuntary shiver off as a lack of breakfast. She was lying, of course, and she knew it. But lying was far better than admitting what was really troubling her.

  Frazier would be coming for payment, and he would be coming for it soon. Hope couldn’t let that happen, although she saw no way around it—yet. With a little time alone, maybe she could come up with a scheme that would free her from paying him his due. It was doubtful, true. In three days, she hadn’t thought of one yet.

  Her mind drifted to the strip of rippled flesh marring her back. Her spine stiffened as her heart took a nervous leap.

  She’d think of something. Dear Lord, she had to!

  Chapter 5

  Hope wrapped a thick cloth around the handle of the iron kettle and lifted it from the hearth. The muscles in her arms accepted the weight easily as she toted the heavy burden from the fireplace and set it down on the table with a thump. The hot, melted tallow swished against the kettle’s gritty surface, clinging to the black iron sides and dripping slow, thick paths back down to the melted pool on the bottom. Fingers of steam curled in the air as she stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon, scenting the small room with the tallow’s cloying aroma.

  For the past two hours she’d gone about her chores in a daze, her mind concocting one farfetched plan after another, considering anything that could get her out of paying Drake Frazier. She’d tossed the majority of her crazy schemes aside—except that of telling him the truth. This was the one idea that returned over and over, annoying Hope to no end. She wouldn’t tell him that, she rebuked herself, each time her mind toyed with the idea. She couldn’t tell anyone that.

  She was in the process of dipping the hardened candles for a second time when a prick of awareness tickled the nape of
her neck. Suppressing a shudder, she draped the candles over a limb of the candle tree and spun on her heel.

  Hope gasped when she saw Drake Frazier leaning casually against the door frame. He’d changed into a pair of snug-fitting denim trousers. As always, the Colt was strapped to his rock-hard thigh. A sky blue shirt stretched tightly over his broad shoulders, beneath a dull, cracked leather vest. His arms were crossed lazily over his chest, and his narrowed eyes were watching her every move. A slow smile of satisfaction spread over his lips as he reached up and pushed back the hat riding low on his brow.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she nodded a greeting and turned back to her work. The normally easy task of lifting the second set of candles from their branch without allowing them to brush against the first became a difficult lesson in coordination. It didn’t help to know that Frazier’s eyes never left her. The heat of his gaze smoldering over her back as though tangible fingers stroked her flesh. While not a welcome feeling, Hope was surprised to find that the sensation was not nearly as unpleasant as she would have thought.

  She ignored the sound of a match being struck as she dipped the wicks into the steaming tallow. By the time she had placed them on their branch, the room was heavy with the sulfurous odor of the match, intermingled with the scent of his cheroot. Hope recognized the distinctive aroma immediately, though where he had found one of those tiny cigars in this godforsaken place was anybody’s guess. The scent brought unwilled memories of long summer days spent romping playfully on her grandparents’ farm. Her grandfather had also appreciated the taste of a fine cigar.

  Pushing the memory aside, Hope sent a disdainful glance over her shoulder. “If you have to smoke that thing, I’ll thank you to do it somewhere else. Papa will be home soon and he can’t stand the smell.”

  Drake kept his peace as he let the cheroot roll over his tongue, clamping it tightly between his teeth. He had no more intention of throwing the expensive, half-smoked cigar away than he had of leaving. He was having almost as much fun watching the color splash over high, regal cheekbones as he was eying Hope’s suddenly rigid, self-conscious movements.