Page 116 of Stockman's Stormcloud

‘You!’A woman stormed up to them waving her finger at Dex

‘Careful, that’s Marla. Hank’s missus, cattle rustler number two,’ he whispered into Sophie’s ear, as he dragged her to stand safely behind him.

‘Hello, Marla. Did you lose some weight?’ Not that he could see it or cared either. He’d seen two out of three rustlers, so where was number three, Marla’s brother, Joe?

‘You can’t beat Hank in your fight. He’s bet all our dosh on your fight when it’s meant for our house, so I want you to throw it.’

‘Nick off. Don’t insult me like that. I’ve never thrown a fight.’ Dex frowned at the waste of oxygen.

‘Just who do you think you are?’ It was Sophie. Sweet, timid Sophie pushing Marla away. ‘Don’t get in my man’s face and expect him to throw a fight. He won’t do that for you or anyone.’ Sophie then looked Marla up and down like she was a bug. ‘Did you really leave the house looking like that?’

‘What the hell!’

Was Sophie channelling Bree? Or was this another side to Sophie, the bad side? ‘Sophie?’

‘No. This is my fight.’ Sophie lifted that dainty chin totaunt Marla. ‘My partner will never hit a lady, but I certainly can. If you can call yourself a lady.’

‘I’ve had enough of you.’ Marla swung, but Dex caught her fist and squeezed.

‘Don’t even think about it.’ Dex snarled. No one would dare strike at his family, especially Sophie. Even if Sophie did stir this up.

‘ALL FIGHTS MUST BE HELD IN THE RING.’ It was the referee. ‘If you two ladies are going to duke it out, do it in the ring.’

The crowd opened a pathway straight to the inner circle of light.

‘Coming, princess? I’ve always wanted to beat the crap out of a blonde.’ Marla waddled in her cowboy boots and long shorts, but with the confidence of a brutish woman about to kick Sophie’s butt.

Dex grabbed Sophie’s hand. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Giving you and your family the time you need.’

‘Can you fight?’

‘Um, no. But I’m sick of people walking all over me. As Bree would say, I’m in need of some anger management.’ She tugged her arm free.

‘I can’t let you do this, Soph.’ Not his sweet, smiling Sophie, tightening up her ponytail.

‘Charlie?’ She waved to the old stockman standing on his perch amongst the crowd. ‘Can you put a bet on me to win?’

Charlie gave her a double thumbs up. ‘You give ‘em hell, girlie. We could win enough to feed your cat for a year.’

‘You can’t do this, Sophie.’ Dex followed her.

‘Watch me.’

Thirty-eight

What the hell have I done!Sophie’s legs were like jelly, the paddock’s floor was like a sponge, that she struggled to walk. Whatever had possessed her to do this?

She peered over her shoulder at Dex, who was shaking his head. He was worried about her.

But she was doing this for Dex. She couldn’t let Dex risk his home on a bet, and she certainly couldn’t risk his lungs in a fight that could leave him carrying an oxygen cannister for the rest of his life. She had to do something. Even if she couldn’t believe it herself.

‘What are the rules?’ she asked the referee who looked like a mean nightclub bouncer on steroids. Would they penalise her if she just ran around in circles to avoid getting punched?

‘There are none.’

‘So how do you know who wins?’

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