Authors: Laura Lee Guhrke
He nodded toward the table between them. "Shouldn't leave your money lying about like that. This doesn't seem to be the nicest neighborhood, I'm sorry to say."
Her gaze moved from him to the cash on the table. She stared down at the money and reality returned, making her feel foolish and awkward. She tried to push the feather out of her face. "Thank you for the warning."
She swept the money into her bank. Clutching the tin can to her breast, she gave him a nod of dismissal that bounced her feather back over her eye. She hoped he would take the hint.
He didn't. Instead, he came into the room and circled the table. She stepped back, retreating until her shoulder blades hit the mantel of the fireplace. She glanced down, but the poker was just out of her reach. He came closer, and alarm bells began ringing in her head. He was tall, and strong, and very strange. "Who...what are you doing?"
"Your feather is broken." He reached out and gripped the plume that dangled over her eye, then pushed it back, out of her vision. "I don't know much about the latest fashions for ladies," he added in a confidential tone, lowering his head until his perfect face was only inches from hers, "but I don't believe broken feathers are in vogue for bonnets this year."
He moved his hand, brushing the hair out of her eyes with the tips of his fingers, a light touch that made breathing difficult. She remained perfectly still, too terrified to move as he tucked a strand behind her ear.
He took a few steps back, and she began to breathe again. He surveyed his handiwork for a moment, then gave a satisfied nod. "Much better. Now I can see your face. No hair and ostrich tails to get in the way. Have you ever wondered how the ostriches must feel? Do they know their tail feathers are decorating the bonnets of women all over London?"
She didn't know whether to laugh or scream for help. "Who are you?" she asked, ashamed when her haughty demand came out as a helpless squeak.
"I've frightened you." His voice held both surprise and regret. "Terribly sorry. Didn't mean to. Allow me to introduce myself. Nathaniel Chase, brilliant inventor and rude terrifier of helpless ladies." He bowed, and the unruly strands of his golden hair caught the light.
"How...how do you do," she murmured.
"Very well, thank you." He straightened, shaking back his hair. Again he reminded her of an eagle in flight. "Fair play, ma'am."
She frowned. "Sorry?"
"I've given you my name. What's yours?"
"Mara." She licked her dry lips. "Mara—"
"That explains it then." He nodded sagely. "I see."
"What?"
"Mara means bitter. But I thought perhaps it might be Mariana."
"I beg your pardon?" Trying to follow his meaning was making her dizzy.
"'I am aweary, aweary,'"
She stared at him, wondering if he was a bit touched in the head.
"Don't you know your Tennyson?" he asked.
"Oh, poetry."
He laughed, a sound that was warm and rich and deep, filling her tiny room. "You say that as if it's your daily dose of cod liver oil." With another bow, he said, "It's been a pleasure, Mara Mariana, but I must be off. Opportunities await, and I have work to do." He turned away and looked around. "I had a reason for coming down here," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair and tousling it further. "What was it?" He paused, then snapped his fingers. "Ah! I remember."
He pointed to the open doorway and the wooden crate she had tripped over. "My gears."
She watched him walk out to the landing and lift the box. He gave her a nod of farewell through the doorway.
"The men must have forgotten to bring this up," he said with another of those odd smiles. "Better have that lock fixed," he advised and then disappeared, carrying his box of gears and whistling an aimless melody.
She wondered if perhaps he was a little mad.
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Conor’s Way
Chapter One
Northern Louisiana, 1871
When Conor Branigan ducked under the ropes and entered the ring, the men of Callersville knew he was just too pretty to be a good fighter. Women, of course, would have expressed a rather different opinion of the matter, but no women were there. As it was, the men of Callersville took one look at Conor's lean body and handsome face, and decided they had a sure winner in their local champion.
Conor paused in the center of the ring and responded to the boos and whistles that greeted him, the outsider, with an impudent salute just for show. Then he sauntered over to his corner of the ring and prepared to wait while the bookmaker's clerk took the last bets. His blue eyes scanned the rowdy Friday-night crowd without noticing any face in particular. After twenty towns and twenty fights in seventy days, all the faces looked the same— shiny with sweat, eager for the fight, and anonymous.
But Conor didn't mind that. Life on the boxing circuit suited him. If he won the fight tonight, he'd celebrate his victory by taking a hot bath, smoking a strong cigar, and sharing a bottle of good Irish with some carmine-lipped angel of mercy who asked for nothing more than a dollar bill and a kiss good-bye. Tomorrow, he'd move on to the next town and the next fight.
No ties, no family, no commitments. That was Conor's life now. And that was the way he liked it.
A round of cheers went up as his opponent entered the tent, and Conor turned to watch Elroy Harlan make his way through the crowd. The reigning champion of Jackson Parish and the odds-on favorite was a huge, hulking wall of a man who stepped into the ring amid the encouraging shouts of his friends and neighbors.
Conor figured that Elroy outweighed him by a good forty pounds, but he knew from experience the big ones were usually too slow. If Elroy had a build similar to his own, Conor might have been worried, but when Elroy moved to his own corner and scowled at him across the ring, Conor just leaned back against the ropes and gave the other man a deliberately provoking smile. Provoked men got angry.
"Irish son of a bitch," Elroy snarled.
Conor's grin widened. Angry men made mistakes.
Prizefighting was just a job, a way to make a living. It wasn't fun, but it was better than gutting fish in Boston or cleaning up horse dung in the streets of New York twelve hours a day for a pittance wage. It was better than swinging a sledgehammer under the hot sun on the railroad line. Conor worked only two nights a week, five months a year, and the rest of the time, he was free. He answered to no one, he needed no one. Yes, life on the boxing circuit suited him just fine.
"Getting a bit cocky, aren't you?"
Dan Sweeney's voice interrupted his thoughts, and Conor turned his head to give his manager a careless shrug. "I can't help it, Danny. Look at the man. I probably won't even have to hit him. I'll just dance around him until he's so dizzy, he just falls down."
Conor's style of boxing was something the two men had often joked about, but this time, Dan didn't laugh. Instead, he glanced around, then leaned closer, resting his forearms on the ropes between them. "Odds are in, boyo."
"And?"
Dan rubbed one hand across his jaw. "No surprise. Elroy's the heavy favorite. But all the bets on him have been small, each no more'n a dollar or two." Dan paused, then added, "On the other hand, a couple rich men are up here from New Orleans. Saw you fight at Shaugnessey's last spring, and they've bet the limit on you. Five hundred each."
"Then they'll be even richer pretty soon."
But Dan shook his head. "No, lad. The bookmaker had a wee talk with me, and he's made it clear he'd rather not pay out that kind of money, if you take my meaning."
Conor did. If Elroy won, the payouts would be many, but paltry, and the bookmaker would make a nice profit on the bets of the two men from New Orleans. If Conor won, only those two men would walk away winners, but the bookmaker would lose a lot of money. He met Dan's eyes and said it aloud. "He wants me to go down."
"Let's just say it'll be healthier for us all if Elroy wins this one."
Conor smiled again, a benign smile. "Over my dead body."
Dan scowled at him. "That could happen," he muttered. "Don't be stupid."
The referee beckoned Conor forward, indicating that the fight was about to begin, and Dan stepped back. Conor straightened away from the rope and moved toward the center of the ring as he unbuttoned his shirt. Dan was right. He'd never been ordered to go down before, but he knew if he defied the bookmaker, he was asking for trouble. He might make it out of the tent, he might even make it out of town, but he wouldn't get much further than that. Better to just let old Elroy sneak in a punch that would send him down to the floor. Easier. Safer.
Conor shrugged out of his shirt and tossed it to land in the corner behind him. Shocked murmurs rippled through the crowd at the scars that scored his chest and back, and Conor responded to the stares and speculative whispers as he always did. He ignored them.
But his outward calm was a deception. There were some who thought those scars were badges of valor and courage, but Conor knew the truth. He felt the old familiar hatred stir deep within him as he remembered the men who had given him the scars. Men who had stripped away everything he was, piece by bloody piece, until he had become what they wanted, until he had become the very thing he hated most. Now, he kept that hate buried deep, hidden by a cocksure smile and an arrogant confidence, but it never left him.
Some things never change
, he thought, as he waited for the referee to signal the beginning of the fight. This wasn't Ireland, but there were still men who demanded his subjugation, men who wanted to own him, use him. Rebellion flared, sudden and hot.
The referee drew the line of powdered chalk in the dust. Toe the line, gentlemen!" he shouted, and jumped out of the way. "No kicking, no gouging, no biting."
The rosary of the prizefighter. A litany Conor heard twice a week from May to September.
Hail Mary
, he thought, and ducked as Elroy swung at him with a ham- sized fist.
And going down be damned
.
The fist sailed over his head. Conor straightened, then punched hard, left to the ribs, right to the jaw, left to the ribs again, but he jumped back before an answering blow could touch him.
He glanced at Dan, and saw the old man shaking his head. He knew that before the fight was over, Dan would be long gone, and he'd be facing the consequences of his choice alone.
Aye. Some things never change
.
Elroy swung again, but this time Conor wasn't quite quick enough. The fist slammed into his cheek, and he staggered back a step, seeing stars.
Jaysus, Conor, get out of the way
. He could hear his brother Michael giving him instructions as if they were boys again, as if this were a field back home in Derry, not a sweat-scented tent in Louisiana, as if Michael were still alive.
Don't just stand there. When he's comin' for you, get out of the way
.
Elroy lunged again, fists flailing, and Conor took his brother's advice. He ducked to the left, hammered three punches in Elroy's gut, and danced out of reach. Then he spun full circle and heard the crack of bone against bone as his fist caught Elroy with an uppercut to the jaw.
Elroy stumbled, recovered his balance, and lifted his fist for an answering punch. But Conor wasn't there.
"What the hell?" Elroy muttered and looked around in confusion.
Conor gave a beckoning whistle, and the other man turned around just in time for the final blow. A groan of dismay went up as Jackson Parish's reigning champion hit the dirt with a resounding thwack. Conor hung back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, breathing through his teeth, waiting to see if Elroy would rise to continue the fight. The other man tried, but he couldn't even get to his knees.
Conor claimed victory by raising one clenched fist in the air as Elroy was dragged out of the ring. Michael would have been proud.
But he knew his triumph would be short-lived, and the price for it would be dear. He walked to his corner and grabbed a towel. As he wiped the sweat from his face, he watched the losing bettors head for the exit. Only two men stopped by the bookmaker's table to collect their winnings, and Conor knew they were the two rich men from New Orleans.
As he'd suspected, Dan was gone. The promoter handed him the twenty-five dollars in prize money, and he tucked the folded greenbacks into a flap inside his boot, even though he knew the bookmaker's men would take it back, probably just before they beat the hell out of him.
Conor donned his shirt and buttoned it, grimacing at the pain that shot through his hands. He picked up the leather pack that contained everything he owned, slung it over one shoulder, and headed for the exit of the now empty tent.
He didn't make it that far. Three men stepped through the wide doorway, and Conor watched them move to stand side by side, blocking his path. The man in the middle spoke. "There's someone who wants to have a word with you."
"Indeed?" Conor's grip tightened on the strap of his pack, ready to toss it aside if the need arose, but he kept his voice casual. "That's a shame, for I'm just leaving."
"I don't think so." The man in the middle stepped forward, and the other two followed suit, walking toward him.
Conor could've taken any one of them, or even two, but with three against him, he knew he didn't have a prayer. Nonetheless, he couldn't make a run for it, so he dipped one shoulder, and the pack slid off to land in the dirt beside him. He kicked it out of the way, clenched his fists, and took a swing at the closest man, hitting him hard enough to send him sprawling back into the dust. But before he could make any further moves, the other two seized him.
He struggled against their hold, but he couldn't break free. The third man rose and stepped up in front of him. Conor knew what was coming. He lashed out with one foot, landing a kick square in the man's groin, but that brief victory was the last one he got.