The Keep of Fire Read Free

cotton-candy hair melting from the heat. Two of them played pool against a pair of handsome, clean-shaven young men—from Denver by their Doc Martens, casual shirts, and the astonished looks on their faces. That was what they got for challenging the Daughters of the Frontier. No one in Castle City was foolish enough to shoot stick with those sharks.
    Over by the jukebox, Davis and Mitchell Burke-Favor two-stepped to the tragic croonings of Patsy Cline. As always, the two men were clad in matching geometric cowboy shirts and spotless Wranglers. At least once a week the pair drove in from their ranch south of Castle City for a night on the town. They moved with the brisk, effortless unison that had won them back-to-back two-step championships in San Francisco a dozen years ago, their wind-worn faces as rugged and serene as the high-country plain.
    Travis paused on his way to the bar, watching the two men dance, and a sigh escaped him. He had moved through life mostly alone. Would he ever be that in-step with another person? He didn’t know. Sometimes he hoped so. Then again, when it came to dancing, Travis had always had two left feet.
    A yelp tore his attention away from the men. He glanced up, then winced. Max was trying to shake up a round of martinis for the dude ranch cowboys. One of them frowned behind his well-groomed mustache as a renegade pearl onion catapulted off an olive spear and bounced around the rim of his freshly steamed black Stetson. Travis moved to rescue Max.
    Minutes later the cowboys had their drinks and were off to their table to play dominoes.
    Max slung a bar towel over his shoulder. “Thanks, Travis. I owe you one.”
    “I know.” Travis reached under the bar, pulled out the martini recipe book, and handed it to Max. “And you can start paying me back by reading—”
    Travis froze as a knight, a lady, and a wildman stepped through the door of the Mine Shaft Saloon.
    “Travis?”
    Max’s voice seemed to come from down a long tunnel. Travis could only watch as the trio threaded its way among the tables.
    This can’t be happening. They can’t be here
.
    The lady walked with chin high, clad despite theheat in a confining gown of green velvet. The gown’s bodice cinched her breasts up into a horizontal shelf, and the two orbs of flesh were pink from too much sun. The knight was short but powerful-looking. Sweat sheened his somber face, and Travis was certain that, if touched, the man’s chain-mail shirt would be hot against his fingers. The wildman scuttled behind the knight and lady, his hunched form draped in rank furs and his hair caked with blue mud. The trio headed directly for Travis. Did they know, then?
    But they can’t know. They’re not even supposed to be here. They should be a world away
.
    The three reached the bar. Travis couldn’t move. The knight rested a hand on the hilt of his sword and spoke.
    “I need a Coors, a glass of the house chardonnay, and …” The knight glanced back at the wildman. “What did you say you wanted?”
    “Make it a Guinness,” the wildman said.
    The lady frowned. “How can you drink that stuff, Ted? It’s noxious.”
    The wildman grinned, his teeth white and straight in his dirty face. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”
    Travis stared, his mind flailing. Only then did he notice the mobile phone clipped to the knight’s belt, the Day-Glo fanny pack around the lady’s waist, and the shoes on the wildman’s feet: nylon strap sandals with rubber soles.
    Of course—he remembered the tents and stalls he had seen going up east of town the other day. It was June. The Medieval Festival had started up again for the year. Most nights, a group of workers from the festival would show up at the saloon near sundown to have a drink after a sweaty day of work.
    Max touched his arm. “Is something wrong, Travis?”
    He hadn’t responded, and the knight was frowning.
    “No, Max. Everything’s just fine.”
    He moved to get the drinks, and the