California Caress by Rebecca Sinclair Page A

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