“Well?” Old Joe asked. “What’d he say?”
“What could he say?" Bart shrugged. “It wasn’t in the rules that we couldn’t get outside help. Nobody said outright that you were fighting, they just assumed it. Isn’t our fault they jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
“A conclusion we goaded them into,” Hope chirped in.
“Maybe.” Bart shrugged. “Maybe not. The point is, Luke’s not fighting.” He turned his attention to Drake, although his words were aimed at his daughter. “Your friend here is.”
A flicker of unease washed over her as she watched the Swede Frazier would be fighting approach the other side of the circle.
Of course, Oren Larzdon turned out to be the biggest, brawniest of the lot. His snowy blond head easily towered over the other men around him. His shoulders were wide, his arms muscular. There was a hardness in the bony face, and a flash of shrewdness in the pale blue eyes. Gut instinct told Hope that this man had no intention of fighting fair.
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.