Work, he decided, was a wiser option than a bottle.
He busied himself with an engine until he heard the familiar blat of a horn. That would be Holt, bringing in the last tour of the day.
His mood still sour, Nathaniel went out and down to the pier to help secure lines.
“The holiday's bringing in a lot of tourists,” Holt commented when the lines were secured. “Good runs today.”
“Yeah.” Nathaniel scowled at the throng of people still lingering on the docks. “I hate crowds.”
Holt's brow lifted. “You were the one who came up with the Fourth of July special to lure them in.”
“We need the money.” Nathaniel stomped back into the shop. “Doesn't mean I have to like it.”
“Who's ticked you off?”
“Nobody.” Nathaniel took out a cigar, lit it defiantly. “I'm not used to being landlocked, that's all.”
Holt very much doubted that was all, but, in the way of men, shrugged his acceptance and picked up a wrench. “This engine's coming along.”
“I can pick up and go anytime.” Nathaniel clamped the cigar between his teeth. “Nothing holding me. All I got to do is pack a bag, hop a freighter.”
Holt sighed, accepted his lot as a sounding board. “Megan, is it?” “I didn't ask for her to drop in my lap, did I?”
“Well...”
“I was here first.” Even when he heard how ridiculous that sounded, Nathaniel couldn't stop. “Woman's got a computer chip in her head. She's not even my type, with those neat little suits and that glossy briefcase. Who ever said I was going to settle down here, lock myself in for life? I've never stayed put anywhere longer than a month since I was eighteen.”
Holt pretended to work on the engine. “You started a business, took out a mortgage. And it seems to me you've been here better than six months now.”
“Doesn't mean anything.”
“Is Megan dropping hints about wedding bells?”
“No.” Nathaniel scowled around his cigar and snarled. “I am.”
Holt dropped his wrench. “Hold on a minute. Let me get this straight. You're thinking of getting married, and you're kicking around here muttering about hopping a freighter and not being tied down?”
“I didn't ask to be tied down, it just happened.” Nathaniel took a deliberate puff, then swore. “Damn it, Holt, I made a fool of myself.”
“Funny how we do that around women, isn't it? Did you have a fight with her?”
“I told her I loved her. She started the fight.” He paced the shop, nearly gave in to the urge to kick the tool bench. “What happened to the days when women wanted to get married, when that was their Holy Grail, when they set hooks for men to lure them in?”
“What century are we in?”
The fact that Nathaniel could laugh was a hopeful sign. “She thinks I'm moving too fast.”
“I'd tell you to slow down, but I've known you too long.”
Calmer, he took up a ratchet, considered it, then set it down again. “Suzanna took her lumps from Dumont. How'd you get past it?”
“I yelled at her a lot,” Holt said, reminiscing. “I've tried that.”
“Brought her flowers. She's got a real weakness for flowers.” Which made him think that perhaps he'd stop on the way home and pick some up.
“I've done that, too.” “Have you tried begging?”
Nathaniel winced. “I'd rather not.” His eyes narrowed curiously. “Did you?”
Holt took a sudden, intense interest in the engine. “We're talking about you. Hell, Nate, quote her some of that damn poetry you're so fond of. I don't know. I'm not good at this romance stuff.”
“You got Suzanna.”
“Yeah.” Holt's smile spread. “So get your own woman.” Nathaniel nodded, crushed out his cigar. “I intend to.”
Chapter 10
The sun had set by the time Nathaniel returned home. He'd overhauled an engine and repaired a hull, and he still hadn't worked off his foul mood.
He remembered a quote—Horace, he thought— about anger being momentary insanity. If you didn't figure out a way to deal with momentary insanity, you ended up in a padded room. Not a cheerful image.
The only way to deal with it, as far as he could see, was to face it. And Megan. He was going to do both as soon as he'd cleaned up.
“And she'll have to deal with me, won't she?” he said to Dog as the pup scrambled out of the car behind him. “Do yourself a favor, Dog, and stay away from smart women who have more brains than sense.”
Dog wagged his tail in agreement or sympathy, then toddled away to water the hedges.
Nathaniel slammed the car door and started across the yard. “Fury?”
He stopped, squinted into the shadows of dusk, toward the side of the cottage. “Yeah?”
“Nathaniel Fury?”
He watched the man approach, a squat, muscled tank in faded denim. Creased face, strutting walk, a grease-smeared cap pulled low over the brow.
Nathaniel recognized the type. He'd seen the man, and the trouble he carried with him like a badge, in dives and on docks the world over. Instinctively he shifted his weight.
“That's right. Something I can do for you?”
“Nope.” The man smiled. “Something I can do for you, ”
Even as the first flash of warning lit in Nathaniel's brain, he was grabbed from behind, his arms viciously twisted and pinned. He saw the first blow coming, braced, and took a heavy fist low in the gut. The pain was incredible, making his vision double and waver before the second blow smashed into his jaw.
He grunted, went limp.
“Folded like a girl. Thought he was supposed to be tough.” The voice behind him sneered, giving him the height and the distance. In a fast, fluid movement, Nathaniel snapped his head back, rapping his skull hard against the soft tissue of a nose. Using the rear assailant for balance, he kicked up both feet and slammed them into a barrel chest.
The man behind him cursed, loosened his grip enough for Nathaniel to wrest himself away. There were only seconds to judge his opponents and the odds.
He saw that both men were husky, one bleeding profusely now from his broken nose, the other snarling as he wheezed, trying to get back his breath after the double kick to his chest. Nate snapped his elbow back, had the momentary pleasure of hearing the sound of bone against bone.
They came at him like dogs.
He'd been fighting all his life, knew how to mentally go around the pain and plow in. He tasted his own blood, felt the power sing up his arm as his fist connected. His head rang like church bells when he caught a blow to the temple. His breath burned from another in the ribs.
But he kept moving in as they circled him, lashing out, dripping sweat and blood. Avoiding a leap at his throat with a quick pivot, he followed through with a snapping, backhanded blow. The flesh on his knuckles ripped, but the pain was sweet.
He caught the quick move out of the corner of his eye and turned into it. The blow skimmed off his shoulder, and he answered it with two stinging jabs to the throat that had one of the men sinking bonelessly to his knees.
“Just you and me now.” Nathaniel wiped the blood from his mouth and measured his foe. “Come on.”
The loss of his advantage had his opponent taking a step in retreat. Facing Nathaniel now was like facing a wolf with fangs sharp and exposed. His partner was useless, and the man shifted his eyes for the best route of escape.
Then his eyes lit up.
Lunging, he grabbed one of the boards waiting to be nailed to the deck. He was grinning now, advancing and swinging the board like a bat. Nathaniel felt the wind whistle by his ear as he feinted left, then the wood slapping on his shoulder on the return swing.