Page 1 of Hers By Summer’s End

CHAPTER ONE

July 16, 1909

43 days until Cactus Dahlia Day

In a battle of wills, Miss Cecelia Townsend had no equal.

Drawing herself to her considerable height, she glared down her nose at the weedy doorman barricading the entrance to the Yukon Gold Athletic Club. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, but he only clutched his handful of tickets more tightly.

“For the third time,” she said with forced patience, “I’ll take one ticket to the prize fight.”

“And I’m telling you,” he insisted, swiping his brow with a handkerchief already soaked through, “that this establishment does not, would not, and cannot host prize fights!”

Well, that was patently false. She followed every development of Andrew Sutton’s career with the same attention she gave her prize dahlias. She knew perfectly well he was fighting at the club tonight. Then she reconsidered the doorman’s wording, the peculiar emphasis placed upon prize fight⁠—

“Lady!” A man hollered from farther down the sidewalk. “Ain’t no more prize fights in Seattle! This here’s a smoker!”

Ah. Of course.

Seattle’s latest fit of civic morality had apparently been enough to shackle even one of the most prestigious social clubs around. Thank goodness men could still punch one another senseless before a cheering crowd, so long as everyone agreed to call it something else.

“One ticket for the smoker, then,” she corrected smoothly.

“The amateur bout between club members requires a membership,” the doorman spluttered. “One you cannot possibly⁠—”

“One membership, please.”

“Ma’am, this is a gentlemen’s club!”

Without breaking eye contact, Cecelia reached into her coat pocket and withdrew the strip of black felt reserved for if all else failed. She pressed it firmly beneath her nose. The adhesive softened against the perspiration gathering on her upper lip in the warm evening air but held.

“Better?”

The doorman’s mouth opened and closed, producing nothing whatsoever. Behind Cecelia, the line waiting to enter swelled in number, a ragbag of local men primed and ready to glorify violence. A ripple went down the line at the delay. Someone snickered. Someone else muttered, Christ Almighty. Yet the doorman remained incapable of speech.

She sighed and adjusted her bowler hat. Seemed she had broken another man—such terribly delicate creatures, when it came down to it.

“Can’t get any worse,” a nearby man drawled. “She’s as big as the Fighting Florist himself!”

“And nearly as ugly,” another said with a guffaw.

Cecelia turned slowly. Lamplight spilled across the sidewalk, catching the afternoon’s drizzle still clinging to the brick building. The two men shrank a fraction under her attention. Sensible of them. She’d heard the same insults—and considerably more creative ones—all her life.

“I am indeed a large woman,” she replied. “Far too much woman for the likes of you.” She gave the thinner of the pair a brisk once-over, then clucked her tongue. “I’d snap your spindly frame in half without so much as trying.”

Laughter burst down the sidewalk. Even the doorman choked out a snicker before catching himself.

“Let her in,” someone shouted. “She can entertain us between rounds!”

“If she don’t care about her reputation, why should we?” the thinner man added. “Good God, man, hurry up. Some of us are dying for a beer!”

“All right, all right,” the doorman said at last. “This membership,” he said pointedly, tearing off a slip from his pad and handing it over, “expires after the bout. I trust you won’t return?”

Cecelia smirked as she tucked the ticket into her green leather handbag. “Not until the next one.”

He gestured for her to move ahead, muttering, “This is no place for ladies.”

On that point, at least, they agreed. Good thing she was no lady—just a confirmed spinster who’d rather study the hereditary traits of dahlias than attend the latest soiree. Besides, she had a message to deliver, and it must happen tonight. Tradition demanded it. She stepped over the threshold, wetting her dry lips.