Territorial Bride. Linda Castle

woman. That was all.

      Wasn’t it?

      Rod shrugged. “It was just a joke, little brother. Take it easy.” Rod walked to his mother’s chair and dutifully bent to deliver a kiss to the top of her silver curls. “I never dreamed you’d return from the Territory so serious, Brooks. Perhaps a garden party is what you need.”

      “Where are you going, Rod?” Patricia looked up, still holding the invitation in her hand, with a happy smile on her face. Parties did that to her, Brooks mused.

      “It is my morning at the gentlemen’s club.”

      “Oh yes.” Patricia frowned at Brooks. “Why don’t you go too, Brooks? You have been a bit grumpy lately.”

      “I have been grumpy?” Brooks repeated in astonishment. “I don’t know why you all keep saying that.”

      “Well, you have, dear, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why, especially when things seem to be working out for you and Violet Ashland.”

      Brooks rolled his eyes to the ceiling and counted to ten. “Mother, there is nothing between me and Violet. I’ve told you this before.”

      Patricia smiled. “All right, dear.” She held both her hands up. “If you want everything to be a surprise, then fine, I will act as if I haven’t heard a word.” She beamed at him. “Just as you say, there is nothing between you and Violet.”

      “Mother—” Brooks started to explain, but Rod snagged his arm and tugged him toward the door as if he were a shavetail.

      “Come along, little brother, or I’ll box your ears. It will do you good to work up a sweat instead of just getting hot under the collar.” Rod laughed aloud when Brooks flashed him another dark gaze, but he continued to tug his sibling toward the door.

      The carriage lurched through a light drizzle of rain. Brooks had been silent on the way to the club, trying to figure out why on earth his mother could be so convinced that he and Violet were still romantically involved. But before he had found a scenario that seemed to fit, Rod was opening the carriage door.

      Moisture accumulated on Brooks’s face and his mustache as his eyes traveled up the craggy facade of the club. Vermont granite, the color of the storm clouds scudding overhead, soared upward without a break for seven stories. Stark, unadorned rock, solid and unyielding, met his eye.

      “It never changes, does it?” he muttered.

      “Not on the outside, at any rate.” Rod tilted his head, endeavoring to see what held his brother’s attention. “We have had one or two minor alterations on the inside.”

      Brooks’s eyes scanned each floor while memories of his former life flooded through him. He’d had his first liaison here with Violet after a boxing match. “What? Have they installed new leather sofas?”

      The carriage clattered away as the pair took the polished steps two at a time, side by side. “Not exactly.”

      “I know—new humidors,” Brooks teased, suddenly glad that Rod had insisted he come along.

      Rod smiled thinly at his brother’s attempt at humor. “A group of forward-thinking young women came to attend one of the weekly sparring matches.” He chuckled.

      Brooks raised both brows, a little doubtful of the story. “I’ll bet that caused some of the older members to need three fingers of brandy and a short rest.”

      “You would think—but that wasn’t the way it turned out at all. After the hoopla settled down, everyone noticed the pugilists actually seemed to be putting forth a little more effort.” Rod shook his head and laughed. “Because of the record amount of wagers won and lost on that day, a new tradition was started. Now, once a week, ladies are invited—actually welcomed—to observe the exercises. It has caused some raising of brows from other gentlemen’s associations, but we are standing firm.”

      “Remarkable.” Brooks found himself chuckling along with Rod. The staid and conservative founders of the club were probably turning over in their graves while the present members won wagers of staggering amounts on each bout. The women were allowed in, so long as it profited the stodgy members.

      “You should understand, brother, a man will endure all kinds of pain to impress a woman.” Rod kept a straight face, but his eyes twinkled.

      “Perhaps, if she is the right woman,” Brooks acknowledged, while his thoughts vacillated from Violet to Missy. He found himself lost in a world of his own while Rod went to change his clothing. It seemed like only moments had gone by before he returned.

      “Last chance to come and take a shot at your older brother. Those hands of yours are tough and callused as shoe leather from the work you did out West. Now is the time,” Rod taunted as he danced around in his high-topped boots, feigning punches and rotating his broad shoulders as he warmed up.

      “No need to break a sweat to see who the winner is. I concede defeat from right here.” Brooks leaned back in a heavily padded chair and laid his coat over the arm. He stretched his long legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankles. “I have no desire to get up there and have my face pummeled. You carry on without me.” He intended to remain seated; there was nothing Rod could say, no inducement he could offer, to get him into the ring.

      “Suit yourself.” Rod turned and focused his attention on a young man who entered the ring bare chested, wearing similar knitted wool tights and high-topped, laced boots of black leather. They met in the middle, shook hands and then, during the next few minutes, proceeded to pound each other’s face.

      Brooks unconsciously grimaced each time Rod took a punch. Brooks had eaten enough dirt and tasted his own blood more than enough in the Territory. The sport of bare-knuckle pugilism no longer interested him.

      Sweat covered Rod’s exposed upper body in a glossy sheen, but he danced on his toes, obviously still fresh. A young man who stood outside the ring rang a small bell and both men stepped away, going to opposite corners.

      “He’s got a nice punch,” Brooks offered. “Who is he?”

      Rod spat a mouthful of water into a bucket and grinned at his sibling. “I believe that is Cyril Dover—you remember him.”

      “No, don’t think I do.” Brooks looked at the man.

      “Rumor has it he has been squiring Missy O’Bannion around town.”

      Brooks’s head snapped up. Something hot and liquid coursed through his veins.

       Jealousy.

      Brooks stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. “I think I’d like to—” be the man who escorts Missy “—have a go at him,” he said.

      Rod raised his brows, but he didn’t laugh. “Suit yourself. Go change and I’ll ask Cyril if he’s up to a fresh comer.”

      

      Brooks planted a solid fist on the young man’s chin. Blood smeared his knuckles. Brooks advanced, driving Cyril back. Surprise—or was it knowledge?—gleamed in Cyril’s eyes as they stood facing each other.

      Blood, or a knockdown, marked the official end of a contest between gentlemen at the club. Brooks knew he had to break off his assault.

      “Well done, brother,” Rod said to Brooks, who was breathing heavily. Cyril joined them, not nearly as defeated looking as Brooks had hoped he would be.

      “Anytime you want a go with me, just be here before seven in the morning,” he said cheerfully. “I am always looking for a man to give me a good workout.”

      Rod picked up a towel and offered it to Brooks. He took the towel and dabbed at his face.

      “How’s business going?” Rod asked.

      Cyril shrugged. “My father makes the money, I consider it my sacred duty to spend it.” Straight white teeth flashed when he smiled. “By the way,