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Ryder was just shy of 6-foot, a bit shorter than Alpha McKenzie. He had one of those chiseled chests that narrowed down to his hips. His leathers rode low. Her eyes mentally traced the light dusting of hair that ran down his chest and belly. Would the leathers hamper his movement? She worried for a moment. Not his first fight, she reminded herself.
He was much darker than the Alpha, who was of Scottish heritage, if she had her history right. He was ruddier, with sandy brown hair. And he was hairy, she saw as he pulled his sweater off. And she’d been right. He was packing extra pounds. She wondered how old the man was, and how long he’d been Alpha. Too long, she thought. Much too long.
She studied the scene in front of her as the two men circled warily. McKenzie wasn’t going to win, she realized suddenly. She couldn’t tell much about the dominance of the two, but Ryder was younger, stronger, and she didn’t think McKenzie had been in a fight in years. Maybe decades. He was an old wily wolf, that was true, and perhaps in wolf form it would be different. She glanced at the bartender again with respect. But in human form, the contrast between the two men was stark. And the men of the Penticton pack shuffled warily.
What would Abby do, she wondered. She pondered that for a moment. She’d call the women, Jessie thought, suddenly sure of it, although she didn’t know why. Margarite would too. She’d hold a potluck. It was all she could do not to laugh. She got a grip on herself and visualized that soaker hose.I protect the pack, she sent out.Come. We will gather together and be pack together.She visualized the Last Chance bar, confident that everyone would know it. Penticton was a small town. Bring food, she added, inspired by her thought of Margarite.No one in their right mind eats at Last Chance. Come.
She widened her stance a bit, and then she poured her love and support to her mate.
Chapter 9
Day 158 of the re-emerged Hat Island pack, Tuesday, Nov. 12, Penticton
Ryder circled around, making the Alpha move with him. He wasn’t going to dismiss the man as an easy opponent, although he was surprised at how out-of-shape he was. He thought the bartender might have thrown him a bone here. He’d have to figure out why later.
But Ryder had been fighting since his first day of kindergarten. Some bigger white kid had called him a dirty name and called his mother a squaw. The kid had gone home with a broken arm; Ryder had a black eye and was unrepentant when he got in trouble at school. His father had listened to his side of the story, and had gone down to the school with him, when he was called into the principal’s office. “‘He started it’ is not a defense,” his father had said. “If the fight was righteous, it doesn’t matter who started it. It matters who finishes it, however,” he said with a quick grin. Ryder had taken the advice to heart. He’d explained to the principal and the other boy’s parents, that the boy had called his mother a bad name. “I still didn’t hit him until he followed up the insults by throwing a punch,” the small Ryder had said solemnly. “But he needed to know that he can’t say those kinds of things.”
Looking back now, he wondered how the principal and his father had managed not to laugh out loud. He’d not been punished. His father gave him fighting lessons, and his mother had baked him cookies. She knew what it was like for a Native American boy in those schools. He’d have a lot of fights ahead of him.
And he had. He won most. Lost a few. He learned that not even a shifter teenager can win if there are enough opponents — even if they are humans. A valuable lesson that. His mother — and his father — challenged him to justify each fight. Had there been another way? Was it justified? Was the damage done the minimum needed to make the point? That one was particularly important, he’d learned. And it had been Titus Black who had often talked to him about how to tell.
The military had taught him more about fighting. And gave him weapons to fight with. He’d sometimes wished that Titus had been around to talk to the U.S. military about minimum force necessary. That wasn’t a lesson they’d learned, apparently. Ryder didn’t reject human weapons as many shifters did, but he was more comfortable when he could fight like a shifter should— man to man, wolf to wolf.
A fight like this one.
The stakes here were high, he acknowledged. Not just for him, but for the Okanogan pack, for his mate, and, he thought, perhaps for the Penticton pack. He must be picking up something from Jessie. He was all but being blasted with love and power from her. It revved him up, no lie.
In more ways than one.
“Come on, old man,” he taunted. “We going to fight or just dance?” He did a quick two-step, and the men in the bar laughed. Well, Benny and Titus laughed, at least.
As he expected, McKenzie rushed him with a roar at that. McKenzie was pushing out his dominance, an almost brutal force that battered at Ryder. He’d never felt dominance like that before! He pushed back.
They clenched, and Ryder, slightly shorter, used it to his advantage to head butt the man under the chin. McKenzie danced back, and it was only a glancing blow. Still it had connected, Ryder thought, as the Alpha spat blood on the floor.
“What did I say about no blood on the floor?” the bartender scolded.
