Chapter 7 #3
“He’s all tough and cranky. Then there’s the big hands, the scar,” she said, tapping her eyebrow. “And those liony eyes.”
“Liony.” Meara tried out the words. “Well now, I suppose they are. Boyle McGrath, King of the Beasts.” She let out another of her barroom laughs.
“That’s just looks, but they’re really impressive. On top of it, he was really kind to me. Then there was the sex. Dream,” Iona said quickly when Meara’s mouth fell open. “Sex dream. I had one last night, and I felt so guilty because I really like you. And you don’t want to hear any of this.”
“You’re mistaken, entirely. I want to hear all of this, in the greatest of detail.”
On a laughing moan, Iona covered her face with her hands. “You’re Boyle’s friend. If you tell him the Yank’s got this slow simmer going on, he’ll either laugh himself into a coma or fire me.”
“He’d do neither, but why would I tell him any such thing? There’s a sisterhood that covers such matters. That’s a universal sort of thing to my mind.”
“Of course there is. Anyway, I think I’m just jet-lagged, and turned around, and coming to grips. It’s nothing. It’ll pass.”
“Maybe you should take him on a ride before you—”
She broke off at the sound of raised voices. “Ah, Christ.”
Turning on her heel, Meara strode out, and as the voices—male, extremely pissed—escalated, Iona followed her.
Boyle faced off with a hard-packed bull of a man in a red cap and plaid jacket. The bull, his face nearly as red as his cap, jabbed out with a finger. “I come here being reasonable, though you’re a cheat and a liar for all that.”
“And I’m telling you, Riley, what business we had is done and over. Get off my property, and keep clear of it.”
“I’ll get off your bleeding property when you give me back the horse you next to stole from me, or hand over fair payment. You think you can steal from me. Bloody thief.” He shoved Boyle back two steps.
“Oh Jesus,” Meara muttered. “Now he’s done it.”
“Don’t put your hands on me again,” Boyle warned, very quietly.
“Oh, I’ll put more than my hands on you, you fucking shite.”
Riley threw a punch. Boyle shifted his weight, angled his head, and the fist breezed by his ear.
“We should call the police. The guard, whatever it’s called.”
Meara barely glanced at Iona. “No need.”
“You get one more.” With his arms still down by his sides, Boyle spread his hands. “Take it, if you’ve a mind to, and know you won’t be walking away from this if you do.”
“I’ll beat ya bloody.” Riley charged, fists up, head down.
Dancing to the side, Boyle turned, jabbed two short punches.
Kidney punches? Iona wondered as her eyes went wide. Oh God!
Riley stumbled, but stayed on his feet, punched out again. The blow grazed Boyle’s shoulder as Boyle slapped it away with a forearm.
Then he followed up. A right to the jaw, left to the nose. Jab, uppercut—Iona thought—a left cross. Two punches to the middle.
Fast, so fast. Light and quick on his feet, barely showing a reaction when Riley managed to land a blow.
Bare knuckles slapped and crunched into flesh and bone.
Riley, his nose pouring blood, his mouth dripping it, made a staggering charge.
On a pivot, Boyle swept up his fist—definitely an uppercut—hitting the jaw like an arrow in a bull’s-eye.
He started to follow up, pulled back. “Fuck it,” she heard him mutter as he simply put a boot on Riley’s ass and shoved him facedown on the ground.
“Oh God. My God.”
“There now.” Meara patted her shoulder. “It’s just a bit of a dustup.”
“No. It’s . . .” She fluttered her fingers over her belly.
Meara snorted out a laugh. “Aye, a fascination to me you are.”
A few feet away, Fin sat astride a restless Alastar. “Again?” he said mildly.
“Fucker wouldn’t walk away.” Boyle sucked at his raw knuckles. “And I gave him every chance.”
“I saw you giving him those chances as I rode up, and how could he be walking away with your fist in his face?”
Boyle only grinned. “That was after the chances.”
“Well, let’s make sure you haven’t killed him, as I’ve no desire to help you hide a body this morning.” As he dismounted, he crooked a finger at Iona. “Yes, you. Be a darling and tie Alastar to the post. Don’t unsaddle him.”
When he held out the reins, she hurried over to take them.
Using his boot again, Boyle rolled Riley onto his back. “Broke his nose, that’s for certain, and loosened some teeth, but he’ll live through it.”
Fin stood, hands in his pockets as they both studied the unconscious Riley. “This goes back to that horse you won off him, I take it.”
“It does.”
“Bloody git.”
Whistling cheerfully through his teeth, Mick strolled out carrying a bucket of water. “Thought you could be using this.”
Fin took it. “Stand clear then,” he advised, then tossed the water in Riley’s face.
The man sputtered, coughed. His eyes opened and rolled in his head.
“Good enough.” Boyle crouched down, took one arm. On a sigh, Fin took the other.
Absently stroking Alastar, Iona watched them haul the man to his truck, shove him up and in. She couldn’t hear what words were exchanged, but in moments, the truck drove away, weaving a bit.
As she did, the men watched it. Then Fin said something that had Boyle letting out a laugh before he slung an arm around Fin’s shoulders and turned to walk back.
She saw it then, the ease between them. More than partners, she realized. More still than friends. Brothers.
“Performance is over for the day,” Boyle called out. “There’s work needs doing.”
At his words, the staff that had gathered, scattered.
Iona cleared her throat. “You should put something on those knuckles.”
Boyle merely glanced at them, sucked at them again. And shrugging, continued inside. Fin stopped by Iona.
“He’s a brawler, is Boyle.”
“The other guy started it.”
Now Fin laughed. “No doubt. Maturity’s given Boyle the sense to wait until he’s well provoked, and rare is it for him to throw the first punch. Otherwise, he’d have given Riley the hammering he deserved weeks ago instead of making the wager.”
She should mind her own business. She should . . . “What was the wager?”
“Riley’s a horse trader of the lowest sort. He had in his possession a mare he’d neglected. I’m told she was skin and bones and sick and lame. He planned to sell her off for dog food.”
Eyes fired, lips peeled back in a snarl. “I’d like to punch him myself.”
“You don’t have the hands for it.” Fin watched Alastar nuzzle at Iona’s shoulder, and the way she leaned her head to his. “Best to use your feet for such matters, and aim for the balls.”
“I’d be happy to, in this case.”
“I’ll tell you, as Boyle likely won’t, as he’s a man of few words—or none at all if he can manage it.
He offered Riley what he’d have gotten for selling her off, and more besides, but Riley doesn’t care much for Boyle, or for me, and he demanded double that.
So being a cannier businessman than you might think, Boyle wagered him on who could drink the most whiskey and stay on his feet.
If Riley won, Boyle would pay the asking price.
If Boyle won, Riley turned over the mare for what was offered.
The publican wrote it in the book, and considerable money changed hands, I’m told. ”
As he spoke, Fin unlooped the reins from the post. “And at the end of the long night, it was Boyle still on his feet. Though I’d wager he had the devil’s own head the next morning, he had the mare as well.”
“A drinking bet.”
“As I said, our Boyle’s matured. Now then.” Fin handed the reins to Iona, made a hammock with his hands. “Up you go.”
Her mind full of questions, impressions, she put her boot in Fin’s hands, mounted Alastar smoothly. “Where do you want him?”
“I want both of you in the ring. Let’s see what you can do.”