Arrow's Rest by Joel Scott (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

so with no more remorse than that incurred from swatting a fly. He didn’t know how much Albright knew about their personal relationship and tried to match Cat’s cool, impersonal tone.

“It was a spur of the moment thing. How are you?” Jared’s palms were sweating and he set down his glass on the bar top for fear it would slip from his hand.

“I’m fine. A little bored at the moment to tell the truth. Mr. Albright says the weather precludes my leaving at present. I’m hoping things will clear up soon.”

Jared nodded. “I certainly hope so.” What the hell could he say with Albright sitting there? For a wild moment he considered taking the bottle of Scotch and cold-cocking Albright and making a run for it with Cat. But it would be suicide. It was a long way to the door out onto the deck, and the brothers with their guns were directly in the way. He had no idea where they were anchored or how far they were from shore. Cat was a decent swimmer, better than him, but the water was cold and he didn’t fancy their chances even if they did manage to get over the side. No, better to wait and hope an opening presented itself, however unlikely that seemed at the moment.

Albright regarded the two of them with raised eyebrows and an expectant smile, like a kid waiting for his favourite cartoon show to start. When they remained silent, he shrugged and picked up a remote lying on the bar before him and pointed it at the big-screen TV hanging on the wall.

“I think we have time for a little entertainment before dinner,” he said. The set switched on, and a grainy picture of the room they were in came up and then the shot moved jerkily towards one of the saloon entrances.

“I apologize for the quality. I used my steward as the cameraman that first time and I think he might have been a little nervous there at the beginning. But it gets better as it goes along. Should have had sound. The ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ would have been outstanding when I made my entrance.”

Jared looked at him to see if he was joking. He wasn’t.

The camera steadied and framed the door and suddenly Albright appeared clad in tight black trunks, his boxing gloves clasped above his head in a gesture of triumph and salutation. He stood there for a moment and then bowed left and right to the empty room as if acknowledging the applause of a crowd before straightening up and heading towards the ring. The camera tracked him on his prancing way down the empty saloon, bobbing and weaving as he threw punches at an imaginary opponent before climbing through the ropes into the ring. He turned his back to the camera and went to a corner and pulled on the ropes on either side of the post and did a few squats and then turned and faced the camera again and sat down on the little stool and rested his hands on his knees and bowed his head, waiting.

There was a pause and then the camera tracked jerkily back to the door and Richard Sullivan stumbled through, as if pushed from behind, and gazed warily about. He was wearing only boxing gloves and a pair of trunks and was barefoot. You could see him register the ring and Albright waiting for him inside it. Travis appeared from the doorway behind him and spoke to him and took him by the arm. Sullivan shook him off and strode confidently towards the ring. He stepped through the ropes and, ignoring Albright, did some stretching and neck rolls. He finished up with some light sparring and shadow boxing, dancing and weaving in place.

Jared thought Sullivan looked pretty good. He was quick and light on his feet for his size. Although he was probably outweighed by close to fifty pounds and was a decade or two older than his opponent, he looked to be in decent shape. He finished his warm-up and stood waiting, a light sheen of sweat on his face reflecting in the lights. Albright suddenly stood up and walked to the centre of the ring and Clint, who had been standing outside the ring behind him, took the little hammer hanging from the bell and struck it and the match was on.

Sullivan danced out into the centre of the ring, bobbing his head, taking small balanced steps as he advanced on Albright. He looked calm and professional, a man who knew what he was about. He moved in and flicked out a left jab and it caught Albright on the chin and he danced back again. Albright merely stood there waiting, turning slowly as Sullivan circled him. He hadn’t brought his gloves up to protect himself and appeared lost in thought. Sullivan came in again with a combination that landed on Albright’s upper abdomen and left red marks and still he didn’t respond, just that same curious watchfulness.

Sullivan moved back and glanced uncertainly about. Nobody moved. Albright stood motionless in the same spot, studying him, and then waved him forward once more, this time raising his gloves. As Sullivan moved in on him, he crouched and raised his forearms, taking the blows and slowly backpedalling. And still he didn’t throw a punch. He moved his forearms apart and Sullivan broke through with a hard right cross squarely on his chin and Albright blinked and grinned and nodded in appreciation to the other man and waved him onwards.

Sullivan stopped his bobbing and weaving and moved more slowly around the ring, clearly saving his wind. If he had ever thought it was going to be a proper boxing match, you could see the notion abandoning him. He spoke briefly to Albright and turned to climb back out through the ropes. Albright grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and hit him so hard that a halo of sweat flew off Sullivan’s