Page 2 of Hers By Summer’s End

Her nemesis was close.

A low, steady din pulsed from inside the bowels of the building. She strode down the corridor, her gaze flicking this way and that. Her first gentleman’s club. The sleek oak paneling, velvet-curtained windows, and brass fixtures were impressive; the lack of plants was less so. What was wrong with a little greenery? Shaking her head, she reached a crowded doorway. Two young men with patchy beards and ill-fitting sack suits blocked the way forward.

“Pardon me,” she said firmly.

The taller of the two glanced over his shoulder. She raised a brow and waited. He slunk backward, dragging his friend by the elbow. They stared, agog, as she swept past.

Once inside, she paused to get her bearings. The spacious room, most likely the banquet hall, had been transformed for the evening—stripped bare of furniture, with a platform erected in the center. Rapidly filling benches and folding chairs circled the cordoned ring. Men milled about, puffing on cigars and slinging back glasses of yeasty beer and vanilla bourbon, by the smell of it. Ignoring them all, she hunted out her perch.

A stout column near one corner of the ring was unoccupied, no doubt avoided by those who wanted an unobstructed view. Their loss was her gain. She strode forward to claim it. Leaning one shoulder against the cool, black marble, she pantomimed throwing with the other. She nodded with satisfaction. This would do nicely.

“Cecelia,” said an all-too-familiar, all-too-aghast voice. “You said you wouldn’t come tonight.”

She sighed and turned to face her cousin. “Hello, Theo. I lied.”

He groaned and ran a hand over his perfectly arranged hair. “There I was, enjoying a civilized evening with Rosie, except for the fact that she couldn’t stop fretting over your recent lack of judgment. Naturally, she convinced me you’d be here.”

Cecelia smiled at the mention of her best friend. “She was right.”

“She’s always right,” he said sternly. “But this rivalry with Drew cannot continue tonight. Not here. Not with half of Seattle gathered as witness!”

“It’s not that serious, Theo. So there are a few more people than normal⁠—”

“Cece.” He seized her forearms. “I say this with all the love in my heart: you don’t know what you’re talking about.” She frowned and tried to tug free, but Theo clung to her with the determination of a snapping turtle. “The last challenge between you two resulted in pneumonia and a broken ankle. You vanished for weeks. Months! And while you were gone, do you know what happened?”

“I read the papers⁠—”

“Then you know Drew has been winning. Winning big. Winning every bout they put in front of him.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice despite the increasing thrum of the crowd around them. “Bankers have started showing up. Shipping men. Politicians. Men who will make large bets tonight, then spend tomorrow morning pretending they never set foot near this place.”

“Their hypocrisy doesn’t concern me.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about,” he snapped, finally releasing her. “What if one of them recognizes you? What if they let it slip to their wives or daughters? You’ll be ridiculed.”

A small—very small, practically infinitesimal—part of her wondered if she was making a mistake.

No. No.

She’d spent her whole childhood worrying about what others thought of her. Gap-toothed, frizzy-haired girls who loomed over every boy in their class tended to do that. But she’d freed herself of those chains long ago, and she wouldn’t don them again now.

Besides, she’d been absent long enough. While she’d languished inside, the world had continued on without her. Even worse, Drew had continued on without her. Every newspaper seemed particularly eager to remind her that Drew won another fight. Drew landscaped another garden. Drew did this. Drew did that.

It wasn’t fair.

Then three things had happened in quick succession: the doctor declared her fit to stand on her own two feet, the leaders of the Alaska-Yukon-Pacific Exposition announced Cactus Dahlia Day to take place in late August, and Drew accepted a last-minute fight. The signs were practically emblazoned across the sky—it was time for another challenge. Might as well be on the worldwide stage where she was bound to find glory.

“It can’t be helped,” she said finally. “This is important.”

“I would prefer society not devour you alive over a misguided rivalry.”

“Theo, that’s almost sweet.” She patted his arm. “But I still intend to make my own decisions.”

His shoulders sagged. “You’ll tell Rosie I tried?”

“Most earnestly.”

A cheer at the rear of the room claimed her attention. She craned her neck, her heartbeat kicking up three notches. In the span of a few minutes, the hall had transformed into a heaving sea of bodies. Every chair was filled. Men hugged the perimeter of the room, spilling into aisles and doorways until the room seemed to shrink around them. Even her spot-with-a-poor-view had encroachers. Then a dark head of hair bobbed its way toward the ring, and the crowd stomped its feet and began to chant.

Fight-ing-Flor-ist. Fight-ing-Flor-ist.