Della answered his questions as he grew, but a lot of them died down when he grew big enough, his peers stopped bringing it up. It was hard to tease a kid standing a head taller than everyone else and several inches wider in the shoulders.
“Jensen.”
I blink, tearing my eyes from Landis, who’s talking to Gage by the door. Deacon jerks his head.
“Come on. Let’s get something to drink,” he says.
We enter the deafening room just as the first round ends. In the interim since I met Della, they put up a real pit, sunken into the ground with a fence around it. I never got a chance to fight in it. Around the time Julie-Mae came along, I decided it was probably time to stop fighting recreationally. I didn’t have much to feel angry over anymore.
Landis, though, he took a shine to it the minute he was old and big enough. That concerns me, just a little bit. I know why Istarted fighting in the stockyards, but I don’t know what it is that fuels him.
The boys head over to watch the fight, but I hang back with Deacon to get a beer. He’s in a good mood tonight, as am I. The first haying season is done, and he sold off a handful of horses the other week and made his entire paycheck for the year. Everything is going right in his life. Mine isn’t doing too bad either.
“I didn’t think I’d get here,” says Deacon abruptly.
I glance around. I’m not so sure what’s special about the bar in the stockyards. “What’s that?”
He leans on the bar, tapping his bottle. “I was just thinking about it last night. I guess I kinda thought me and you would do something dumb. Accidentally go lights out before we ever had a chance to have the kids.”
My gaze roves over our sons by the pit. They’re all grown up. Landis is a handful of years older than Gage, but they’re still pretty close. If I squint, they kind of look like a copy-paste of us, just in the way they’re standing.
“That why you knocked Freya up so fast?” I say wryly.
“You’re not any better.”
I shrug, because I can’t dispute that. Our first baby was by accident, and so was our second. That’s just how life shook out for us, and that’s fine by me. I was ready to have a baby with her the minute we touched down in Montana. Our life together has been good. I have no regrets over anything we’ve done since we met.
The crowd roars, signaling an end to the fight. I glance at the board—Landis is up next.
I never got as nervous for my fights the same way I get nervous for his. I’m proud. He’s a good fighter. But I kind of hate that sometimes, I have to stand there and watch somebody beat the shit out of my kid. Luckily, that doesn’t happen much anymore.
“You good? You seem kinda tense.” Deacon glances at me.
I shrug. “I’m good.”
He studies me, eyes narrowed. I shrug, watching as Landis and his opponent stand outside the ring talking as they wrap their hands. I think he’s somebody he’s fought before, but I can’t place his name. This should be an easy fight. They’re both about the same size, and they both look ready to go.
The referee pulls back the corner gate, letting them enter. The crowd is closing in, but I can see over their hands from my vantage point at the bar. Landis doesn’t like me to get close. He says it makes him lose his concentration, but I think he’s just worried I’ll interfere if he gets pinned. I glance over at Gage, hovering at the edge. He should be more worried about him—he’s a hothead when it comes to shit like this.
The whistle blows.
“Patterson,” says Deacon.
“What?”
“That’s the last name of the other fighter? I couldn’t think of it.”
I jerk my head. “Yeah, I thought he looked familiar. He local?”
“Believe he’s out of West Lancaster.”
The crowd gasps. We both lean in to see Landis step back and do a lap, his opponent on the ground. It takes a second, but he’s up, clearly winded. I don’t think this fight is going to take very long. Landis is the opposite of me as a fighter: big, carrying a lot of bulky muscle, and slow. But when he makes contact, it’s curtains down, show over. He’s got a punch like being kicked in the face by a horse. I’d know, I trained him.
They go in. I see it coming, like a whistling train down the tracks. The fighter fumbles, doesn’t move in time, and bam—Landis has him down, flat on his back.
The referee crouches over him then raises a hand, signaling the end. Landis waits until his opponent is up and shakes hishand. Then, he climbs out of the pit, clearly disappointed. I get the feeling. Part of the reason I ended up retiring is that I got better than a lot of the local fighters and there wasn’t any challenge to it. Landis is good enough to fight professionally.
He comes up, wiping the sweat off his face.
