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He stepped in closer, and she knew if he wrapped her up she wouldn’t be able to resist him, but to what end? He couldn’t change who he was, who he’d been raised to be, and neither could she.
She had nightmares about him hugging a sweetheart in an apron, a fresh-baked apple pie on the counter behind them. It should be laughable, but it made her want to vomit.
“Fight with me,” he whispered.
“What?”
“We’ve never had a decent sparring match.” His cheeks crinkled with a slow smile.
“You tracked me to Wyoming to challenge me to a fight?” She wanted to be offended, but honestly she wouldn’t mind fighting with him. Would he let her win? She knew how strong and talented he was. No matter how impressive her skill set, the only way she’d beat him was if she fought dirty. She didn’t want to do that and would still probably lose.
Was she conceding defeat before they even began? She’d give it her all.
“Yeah,” he said, still grinning at her. “Is there somewhere we can?—”
Myra slammed her fist into his smile. His head snapped back, and a trickle of blood went from his lower lip to his chin. He knuckled the blood away and looked at the bright red drop on the back of his hand. Genuine surprise registered on his face, as if he expected to see hydraulic fluid instead of blood.
It was a good punch. One she was already feeling very proud of. Since she’d been going for stealth, she hadn’t planted her foot and driven her hand six inches past his face, but that didn’t mean it was soft. The coming days would reveal very satisfyingly bruised knuckles.
“He’s cut!” she shouted, raising her hands above her head and kicking her feet in a boxer shuffle. “The big Russian is cut.”
“Okay, Rocky Balboa.” He put his hands up and took a defensive stance, grinning with pure joy. “All I wanna do is go the distance.”
That sounded perfect. “Let’s go the distance, Ike.”
She jabbed at his smile again. Ike blocked it this time.
Myra aimed deliberate and impressive hit after hit at him. Sometimes they connected, more often he blocked them. Somehow she knew he could never throw a punch at her. It just wasn’t in his makeup, but she was proud that she got some sneaky and hard hits in. One solid jab to the chest resulted in a satisfying crunch of his sunglasses in his shirt pocket. None of the hits drew blood like the first one.
After a few minutes of her hitting him and burning off some of her frustration, he moved in quick. He pinned her arms to her sides, knocked her off her feet, but rolled and cushioned her with his body. He took the fall to the hard, dry grass on his back.
She lay on top of him, her arms pinned to her side, and glared at him. “Nice move. But I’ve still got you pinned.”
“Yes, you do.” He rolled, and she had no chance to move or defend as he trapped her on the cold ground underneath him. Her hands and arms were restrained. He pinned her legs tight with his legs and she couldn’t move. He wasn’t light, and she had a hard time catching a breath.
“I won this round,” he said.
She finally let herself smile at him. “You did.”
“You’re admitting to defeat?” He lifted his eyebrows, and she might admit to anything with that look on his handsome face, the warmth in his blue eyes.
“Yes. Now can you let me breathe again?”
Ike chuckled. He released her hands and feet, planting his hands on each side of her shoulders and holding his body weight over her. She caught a breath. He was still so close she could smell his clean scent. She wanted to kiss him.
“What in the Sam Hill is going on here?” Her dad’s voice.
Ike grimaced. “Not the best moment to meet Sheriff Tueller,” he murmured, winking at her.
Leaping to his feet, Ike helped her up and turned her to face her dad. Of course her dad had a shotgun in his hands and was pointing it straight at Ike.
“Dad,” she groaned. “Put that away. This is my …”
What was Ike to her?
“Boyfriend,” Ike supplied.
“Maybe.” She wasn’t certain what they were, but he’d come for her, she’d established herself as a decent fighter, and he’d won the fight and pinned her down instead of letting her win. It was an olive branch at least.
