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Creole struck the giant backwoodsman squarely across the jaw with a white kid glove. Jemma decided the shorter man was either very stupid or very foolhardy.
    The man in buckskins had a voice that carried over the crowd. “I told you I was sorry. I stopped your lady friend here because I thought she was someone else. What the hell was that slap for?”
    Even Jemma knew what the slap meant, and she suspected the woodsman did too. It seemed ridiculous, such a bold challenge coming from a quaking little Creole with a rapier-thin mustache and oiled hair. He was so much shorter than his opponent that he had to bend backward just to meet the taller man’s eye.
    Jemma crept closer to listen and heard the Creole say, “I am calling you out,
monsieur
. We will meet under the oaks at dawn. I’m sure you can find someone of your kind to stand as second.”
    Incredibly homely, the lady the woodsman had mistaken for an acquaintance possessed a long horseface and uneven teeth. While her escort fumed, the brunette stared curiously at the woodsman, carefully looking him up and down.
    “Look, mister,” the tall man began, “I’m sorry, but I don’t get up before dawn for anybody, not even you. If you’re smart, you’ll accept my apology and forget it. I didn’t mean the lady any harm.”
    Jemma could see that the man in buckskins was trying to win the others over with a smile. At least six foot three, he far outmatched the Creole.
    “
Never
will I forget such an insult to my Colette!” The young man’s eyes glittered as he wove unsteadily on his feet. Too much drink gave him false courage. “Choose your weapon,
monsieur
.”
    The crowd around them gasped—all but Jemma, who hung on every word and action. It was the most exciting scene she had ever witnessed.
    The unattractive woman had become the center of attention. She gazed at the crowd and almost preened, apparently thrilled that one of her companions would even consider dueling to defend her honor.
    The huge man in backwoods dress sighed so loudly that everyone heard it. “I choose fists.”
    The two smaller gentlemen burst into a spate of Creole French, one obviously arguing a case of common sense to the other. The brunette whipped up the fan at her wrist and snapped it open. Holding it above her head, she used it to shield her face from the rain.
    When the woodsman drawled, “Excuse me,
monsewer
,” Jemma almost giggled aloud. The man was well aware of the crowd pressed around them. He shifted his stance and flexed his wide shoulders to make a point of emphasizing his stature and build before he said, “The last man who challenged me to a fistfight never lived to tell about it. If I were you, I’d take that apology and call it a night.” As a
coup de grâce
, he cradled his long rifle in his arms like a babe. The trigger was level with the little Creole’s nose.
    Finally, the challenger backed down and dismissed the giant with a nod. The crowd sighed with relief.
    “That’s mighty neighborly of you. No hard feelings?” The huge American finally smiled.
    “I accept your apology,
monsieur
.” The offended Creole was beet-red.
    The Creole linked arms with his disappointed admirer and, along with his male companion, began to hustle the brunette away through the crowd. Titters of laughter and conversation filled the night air as the tension was broken and the theater patrons began to move on.
    Jemma edged around the crowd, more compelled to see what the face of the amazing man in leather looked like than she was to stay dry. Squeezing between two burly gentlemen who smelled of bay rum and musty wool, she nudged forward.
    Jemma blinked once and then again. The backwoods giant had turned around and she could see him clearly. He had tied a headful of wild blond hair into a queue, but most of it had escaped to hang over his shoulders. The thick shadow of a new beard couldn’t hide his strong jaw and emphasized his moss-green eyes. The long, well-oiled barrel of his