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  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Debra Holland. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Montana Sky remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Debra Holland, or their affiliates or licensors.

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  IN HIS CORNER

  Book 6, Entertainers of the West

  A Montana Sky Kindle World novella

  by

  Linda Carroll-Bradd

  For almost a decade, Viktor Andrusha has fought to muscle his way from bare-knuckle street brawler to heavyweight boxing champion. A brutal battle two years earlier left him with impaired vision and his opponent dead. At the urging of his manager, Viktor is forced to settle for bouts in smaller venues farther west until he can land the opportunity for one last big match to restore honor to the family name.

  Thwarted in her desire to attend medical college, nurse Odette Hildebrand leaves her father’s clinic to help her relatives relocate to Montana Territory. While collecting medicinal herbs in the woods near Sweetwater Springs, she is drawn by the sound of sweet music and meets a shy man with a battered face. They make a pact: he’ll agree to receive her treatments while she studies the effects of different herbs, hoping to create a marketable remedy. Her skill heals his wounded exterior, but can she live with the fact he’ll receive more, or worse, injuries in the upcoming exhibition fight?

  Welcome to Montana Sky Series Kindle World, where authors write books set in my 1880s-1890s “world” of Sweetwater Springs and Morgan’s Crossing, Montana. Aside from providing the backdrop of setting and townsfolk, I haven't contributed to the stories in any way. The authors bring their own unique vision and imagination to the KW books, sometimes tying them into their own series.

  In His Corner, book 6 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, is written by Linda Carroll-Bradd. I first met Linda in June 2012 when she rejoined the Orange County Romance Writers of America chapter after moving back to California. Within a couple of months, she copy edited one of my stories, and soon Linda became my regular copy editor and a friend. She’s always there for me, even if we are working late into the night on a deadline. We are in the same plot group, and I often see her stories build from the barest outline to fleshed-out book.

  Linda also contributed a story to Sweetwater Springs Christmas: A Montana Sky Short Story Anthology. Her novella in that anthology, Wishes on a Star, features an adult Richelle Quaid (younger sister to Torin Quaid, hero of book 2 who appears in a cameo) and cousin to Lettie, Doyle, and Ronan of this story. Laced By Love, book 1 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Cinnia York and Nicolai Andrusha. An Unlikely Marriage, book 2 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Nola York and Torin Quaid. Dance Toward the Light, book 3 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Dorrie Sullivan and Valerik Andrusha. Baling Wire Promises, book 4 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Fantine Pomeroy and Petya Andrusha. Hearts in Rhythm, book 5 in the “Entertainers of the West” series, features Savina Lombard and Estefan del Vado.

  I hope you enjoy reading In His Corner.

  Debra Holland

  December, 1886

  Chapter One

  The Turne Halle in Leadville, Colorado resounded with throaty grunts and rhythmic slaps from a dozen men exercising. These gymnasiums stood in many American cities, built for the use of any male with German ancestry, and promoted healthy exercise. Once again, Viktor Andrusha thanked his mother—the surname Breit always granted him admittance. Having the appropriate equipment—regulation boxing ring, punching bags, and weights for lifting—allowed him the best preparation for tomorrow’s championship bout. The facilities here, while beneficial, weren’t as extensive as those at the Milwaukee Turnverein where he was first introduced to the sweet science of bruising. Over the years as a professional boxer, Viktor learned he could run through his workout routine just about anywhere and under any conditions.

  Using quick rotations of his wrists, Viktor twirled the length of lightweight rope over his head and crossed his arms in front of his chest, drawing his knees higher. Then he repeated the revolutions, hopping on one foot then the other as he alternated open and crossed-body passes of the jump rope. Labored breaths huffed from his parched throat.

  “Faster.” His manager, Fyodor Stanislav, paced a short distance near the wall and pivoted. “You move like a bear waking from hibernation.” He crossed his arms and chuckled. “I made a joke, da?”

  The rope whirred in an arc over his head, and he blinked against the stinging sweat dripping into his eyes. The muscles in his legs burned, but he gritted his teeth and kept jumping. Only fifty more. Один, два, три. He had to be stronger and faster. Achieving the best condition possible was the only way he could regain the national heavyweight title—a feat he was determined to do. Without the title, what did he have in his life?

  “Pick up your feet, Viktor. Double-time.” Fyodor stopped opposite Viktor and clapped to set the faster pace.

  The rhythm accelerated his twirls. He pushed hard to keep up, slamming his feet on the canvas-covered planks. Hollow echoes shot around the room. His daily allotted time in the boxing ring would soon expire. Then he’d head outside to run in the thin Rocky Mountain air—a routine he repeated twice daily for the past week. Leadville’s ten-thousand-foot elevation could catch an athlete unaware, but Viktor always researched the location of every place he was booked to fight.

  “All right. That’s time, Viktor.” Fyodor stepped to the closest rope, grabbed a white towel, and tossed it.

  After letting the jump rope slip from his hands, Viktor grabbed the cotton cloth and mopped at his face and neck. The training jersey clung to his damp chest and back. He pinched a bit of the shirt’s front and waved it away from his body to create a breeze. “Got my mineral water?”

  “Right there on the side table.” Fyodor scurried to the edge of the canvas mat and reached for an amber bottle.

  Wrapping the towel around his neck, Viktor crossed the floor as he rolled his shoulders to ease the tightness. He grabbed the bottle embossed with the company name, Saratoga Springs, above a star, untwisted the thin wire, and pulled out the tapered cork. The effervescent water tickled his mouth but quenched his thirst better than any city water he’d ever tried. Since a decade-ago visit to The Club House established by ex-heavyweight champ John Morrissey, Viktor always traveled with a supply of the mineral water. Throwing back his head, he chugged, draining the bottle. He blew out a breath as the liquid settled in his empty stomach, cooling him from the inside. Although he wanted more, he dared not drink too much before a run. A rumbling belch escaped his lips, and he tapped the side of his fist against his chest.

  “Good workout, champ. We’ll run you against a sparring partner tomorrow morning then you’ll rest up for the big fight.” Fyodor sipped from a smaller-sized bottle.

  Rivulets of sweat ran down the sides of Viktor’s cheeks. “Do you know who I’ll face?” He swiped a corner of the towel at the perspiration. “I don’t want a guy who’ll go easy, like that Gundry did today.” He shot a glance around and watched a couple other boxers at various places in their routines— curling hand weights, doing chin-ups and sit-ups, tossing weighted pins. Otto Rahn’s footwork wasn’t as fast as his, and Dutch Manfried didn’t have the reach. “I expect a challenge.”

  Flashing a big grin under his scruffy mustache, Fyodor held up his hands and shook them. “Trust me. How long we’ve been together now…six or seven years?”

>   “Almost eight.” He glanced down at the man who stood five inches shorter than his six-foot height. Formerly a lightweight champion, his manager carried an extra twenty pounds from his long past fighting days. Today, the dark-haired man wore a suit Viktor had never seen before—navy blue with a thin stripe in the fabric. The tailored fit meant it hadn’t come off a readymade shelf.

  “By now I know the exact type of partner you need to work out the kinks.” He pulled out a gold pocket watch from his vest and thumbed open the engraved cover. “Should I come back in say an hour or so and give you a rubdown?”

  The watch had been a gift following the middleweight championship fight in Chicago two years earlier. A gesture of thanks for all the work he’d put in to help Viktor reach the pinnacle of the sport. “Неt, I’ll have a long soak at the hotel after my run.” Viktor grabbed the ends of the towel and lifted it over his head with straight arms. Bending at the waist, he bounced to each side as he talked. “Following that, I’m looking forward to enjoying a big steak supper.”

  Dark brows drawn low, Fyodor pointed. “And lights out by nine o’clock. I want you well-rested for tomorrow night’s bout.”

  “Believe me, as tired as I feel, I might not stay awake that late.” Running the towel over the short stubble on his head, Viktor walked to the edge of the room where his knapsack sat. He changed from his thin-soled shoes into sturdy boots for his run. The heavier the better to work his legs. A fleece-lined jacket covered his jersey. From an inside pocket, he grabbed a knit cap and woolen gloves. “See ya tomorrow, Fyodor.”

  Without waiting for a response, he headed for the exit then blinked against the brightness of the late afternoon sun. The mountain air held a definite chill. He stepped into the packed mud of Pine Street and started north. Dodging piles of manure next to mounds of melting snow, he jogged at a steady pace toward the outskirts of town.

  With each step and pump of his arms, he ran through the usual pep talk he gave himself, “Get fit, stay strong, win big.” Tomorrow night’s match had the potential for deciding his future in the sport. Boxing took its toll on a fighter’s body, and each year, he tapped gloves opposite younger fighters. Twenty-seven wasn’t old if a man worked as a farmer, a reporter, or a barber. For a profession where the participants were expected to endure hard punches for multiple three-minute rounds, someone his age was considered a veteran. Don’t think about that.

  About twenty feet ahead, a horse-drawn wagon hauling beer barrels rattled down the street. Viktor lengthened his stride to draw even. Then he pushed hard to drive past the team. As he turned on Ninth Street, he blinked against fuzziness rimming the periphery of the right side of his vision. The buildings and the horse rails blended then separated and rippled like a rock in a pond. Shortening his stride, he rubbed fingers over his eyes and looked again. The images squared and were solid once more. Get fit, stay strong, win big.

  That optical doctor in Chicago was a quack. Viktor wasn’t losing his eyesight. He couldn’t. If he did, then he’d have nothing.

  ~**~

  Mike Goldsmith’s Carbonate Theater

  December 24, 1886

  Shouts and whistles accompanied the muted thuds of padded gloves hitting solid flesh. Even backstage, where he warmed up, Viktor heard every punch. The championship fights couldn’t have started early enough for the excited crowd approaching one thousand spectators. Or that was the rumored estimate of the crowd.

  Focusing his thoughts inward, Viktor worked his combinations—jab, cross, then jab-jab and cross, jab, ending with a hook. Fyodor still hadn’t revealed his opponent. Better to concentrate on his own strategy than second-guess how a certain challenger might fight.

  The posted rules for tonight’s bouts hung from a backstage wall. Goldsmith’s stipulation about using the Queensberry rules, not yet accepted throughout the United States, met with Viktor’s agreement. He’d always believed that boxing by a set of standards—disallowing wrestling moves or hugging the opponent, requiring the athlete return to his stance under his own strength after a knockdown, and mandating padded gloves and shoes with no spikes or springs—elevated brutish slugging to a real sport. Years ago, when he trained in gymnastics under George Brosius at the Milwaukee Turnverein, Viktor learned techniques that made his personal quick footwork boxing style and lightning combinations hard to combat.

  His heart beat faster, but that was normal before a bout. Thankfully, his vision was crisp and clear. A sheen of perspiration coated his chest, but his muscles were limber. As a last loosening exercise, Viktor started a series of jumping jacks. Get fit, stay strong, win big. Behind him, he heard muted conversations among the combatants. In other cities and in other rings, he fought on the roster with each of the champions present tonight—but singularly, not on the same stage. The theater’s manager, John Tudor, earned his exorbitant salary by drawing such a group of respected boxers. On this occasion, the posters bragging “unparalleled entertainment” were true. Viktor wondered if he’d be pitted against George “the Fighting Marine” La Blanche or the New England Champ Jim Carroll. Manfried and Rahn didn’t rank on his preferred list, because he’d already beaten both fighters.

  These matches were being handled a bit differently, and he didn’t like not knowing the identity of his opponent this close to the bout. He’d like another chance opposite Carroll. Their last bout happened more than two years in the past, and Viktor had bulked up since then. His running total of sixteen wins in the past eighteen months attested to what he could accomplish.

  Viktor sat on a bench, elbows resting on his thighs, his silk robe preventing a chill from tightening his muscles. A towel covered his head, both to soak up his sweat and as a curtain to keep from making eye contact with potential opponents. Through the curtain came the screams of the crowd over the introduction of world champion John L. Sullivan. Later, the great Irish fighter would face former United States titleholder, John Mahan, and champion of the Northwest, Duncan McDonald, in separate four-round exhibition matches. If he closed his eyes, he could remember times when he’d been announced in a similar way. His jaw tightened. I want that acclaim again. Second-tier boxers like himself were introduced at the time of the actual match.

  Footsteps approached. “Viktor, listen. Change of plans.”

  On the floor at the edge of his vision stood a pair of shiny boots with distinctive stitching on the top. Fyodor. Viktor turned back a corner of the towel and glanced upward. “Дa?” Resistance clenched his body. He’d spent years working to disassociate himself from the stigma of that brutish style.

  The manager’s dark eyes gleamed. “A guaranteed five-hundred dollar purse to box bare-knuckled.”

  Hands drawn tight, he pounded them on his thighs. “No.”

  Stepping back, Fyodor raised his hands, palms out, while shaking his head. “I know, you left that type of boxing behind years ago. But listen.” He unbuttoned his suit coat before sitting on the bench. “I’ve been making the rounds of the private boxes upstairs and chatting to the swells. This town has its share of rich men who made their fortunes in the mining industry. Horace Tabor is here with a bunch of his cronies.” Fyodor pantomimed lounging in a chair, one ankle crossed over a knee. “They’re drinking, smoking fat cigars, and waxing nostalgic about the good old days and how they wrested silver from the rocks with only their axes and muscles of steel.” He leaned forward, his pale eyes gleaming. “Probably a pack of lies, but those gents kept sweetening the pot until the purse was too damn big to resist. Besides, my job is to make deals with important men like these, not refuse them. We haven’t seen prize money like this in a while.”

  “But bare fisted?” Viktor shot to his feet and paced. All artistry fled when brute force and dogged endurance became the determining factors. Those first lean years came to mind—when he was forced to slug it out in challenges on the docks where he worked as a stevedore. Fights he was compelled to undertake to earn a little extra to bring home to his mother, even if he strayed from the gentlemanly art. Until
the last fight in Boston that turned so horribly wrong. “I swore I’d never box like that again.” Especially after the humiliation of his father being jailed for illegal fight management. Viktor had done everything he could to restore honor for his mother and sisters.

  “You’re in great shape, Viktor. You can do this.”

  Viktor reviewed the revised London Prize Ring rules in his head. No hitting below the waist, no kicking, biting, head-butting, or gouging, no cursing or quarreling. A downed combatant couldn’t be kicked, and the boxers had to get themselves to the middle of the ring for each round with no help from their seconds. Each round lasted until one boxer fell or went down on one knee and a hand, followed by thirty seconds of rest between rounds. Nothing he couldn’t handle, but he’d have to protect his right eye. “Who’s my opponent?” The only one he didn’t want to face was Jake Kilrain who had a bad reputation for below-the-waist punches.

  “Mike Cleary.”

  “Who?” He glared at his manager. First, Fyodor comes up with this scheme and now an opponent who’s a nobody? He expected an adversary with a reputation.

  “A middleweight who held the title from 1880 to 1882. He’s making a run for the heavyweight class. I’ve seen him. He’s scrappy, so he’ll put on a good show.” Fyodor laughed. “That’s all the gents care about.”

  A scowl wrinkled his mouth. “Make sure you insist on honest umpires who’ll check he’s not wearing his outdoor cleated shoes and inspect his palms for stones or weights.” Viktor rolled his shoulders. He detested the idea, but the prize money was five times bigger than his last half dozen fights.

  Ten minutes later, he waited at the edge of the stage, bouncing his weight between his feet to keep his legs limber. Under the robe his upper torso was bare, and snug cotton pants clung to his legs. A two-inch wide cloth belt wrapped his waist. Hearing his name called, Viktor shuffle-danced on stage and tossed his furry ushanka into the twenty-four foot square ring. He waited outside the ropes until he spotted a derby hat sail in from the opposite direction.