Page 23 of I Do, I Do, I Do
Slipping inside the door, trying unsuccessfully to make herself small and inconspicuous, she took a seat at one of the long tables near the back and listened to Mr. Barrett speaking to the crowd of men gathered around him.
“We’ll have as many rounds as it takes to get down to two contenders.” His brown-bear eyes flicked to Clara, held a moment, then he leaned against a chalkboard mounted on the wall. “We’ll put all names in a hat and draw them two by two until everyone has a partner for the first round of the tournament.”
“What kind of a tournament is he talking about?” Clara asked the man nursing a cup of coffee on her left.
“Arm wrestling, ma’am.”
She thought about that. “Is there a prize for the winner?”
“One hundred dollars and free drinks for a month at the Bare Bear Saloon.” When she looked puzzled, he explained, “That’s Bear’s place in Dawson City.”
So he owned a saloon. In her opinion that was a lot smarter than digging for gold he might never find. You couldn’t go far wrong selling food, beds, or whiskey.
Interested, she watched as a man drew names from his hat and Bear wrote the match pairs on the chalkboard.
One hundred dollars.
It was a lot of money for a little bit of labor. Hugo Bosch would stand over a hot skillet for two months to earn a hundred dollars. In Seattle, the average man would work three months to earn the same amount. Throw in free drinks, and the prize probably doubled. Just for winning a silly arm-wrestling contest.
After thinking another minute, she stood and stared at Bear Barrett until he felt her concentration and turned in her direction. Then she mouthed the words, “Can I ask a question?”
“All you cheechakos shut up. The little lady wants to say something.”
Little lady. Clara loved it.
Judging by the frowns and mutters wafting her way, interruptions were not appreciated. But Bear Barrett didn’t seem to mind. Those brown-bear eyes narrowed and traveled to the open strip between the edges of her cape, then touched at her hips before rising back to her face. He was a bold one all right.
Clara took a good look at him, too. He wore denim trousers held up by red suspenders that crossed the shoulders of a white shirt made from enough material to upholster a wing chair. He was a big, big man, but she could see that most of him was muscle. She could have bounced a cannon ball off his chest.
When the mutual inspection had continued a beat too long, she asked, “Can anyone on board enter this match?”
A grin spread his lips, revealing big strong teeth. “You have someone you want to sponsor?”
“Ja. Me.”
Laughter erupted, then abruptly ceased when the men realized she was serious. Then two dozen heads swiveled toward Bear.
“She’s a woman!”
“It wouldn’t be fair! It would be like handing her opponent a free pass to the next level.”
“I ain’t gonna arm-wrestle no woman.”
Bear’s gaze locked to hers during the torrent of objections, and she watched him thinking about it. When she saw a twinkle appear, she knew she was in.
“There’s a five-dollar entry fee,” he said finally, watching to see if the hugely expensive entry fee would discourage her.
The objections erupted into a firestorm of protest while Clara counted the names on the chalkboard and realized Mr. Barrett could offer the hundred-dollar prize and still make money on the tournament. She wished she had thought of this before he did.
Bear shoved a mass of shaggy gold curls back from his face and lifted his lip in a sneer. “Are you sissy boys afraid of going one-on-one with that itty-bitty woman over there?”
Itty-bitty. Clara almost swooned.
At the end of a heated discussion, the men fell silent and glared at her. She’d heard enough to know they resented her for interjecting herself into their contest. Either they figured her for a pushover or feared being beat by her. Neither outcome mattered since none of them would agree to be her opponent.
“Guess that leaves me, Miss Klaus.” Bear gave her a confident grin. “With apologies in advance for taking your money and whupping you.”
“You weren’t going to enter,” someone groused, spitting on the floor in disgust.
