Wild Card

“Who do you think you are?” Clair raged, Letter to Reader Title Page About the Author Dedication Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Epilogue Copyright

“Who do you think you are?” Clair raged,

clinging to the rage like a lifeline. “Let go of me! Who do you think I am?”

With passion clouding his brain, Jake’s temper flared. “I thought you were a woman who wants to get naked as much as I do.”

Desire disappeared faster than gold in a mining camp. “You arrogant bastard! Get away from me! Stay far away from me!” She pulled free of him.

He looked momentarily taken aback, his eyes wide with suppressed passion. “Woman, you can curse me all you want, but I know what was happening here. You want me as much as I want you.”

Without thinking, Clair reached back and swung at him, but he caught her hand, trapping it in his larger one. Black eyes locked with blue, and then he released her.

“Stay away from me!” she flung at him, and with a flounce of black cotton, she spun on her heel and stormed up the stairs.

Dear Reader,

Known for her moving and dramatic Westerns, award-winning author Susan Amarillas’s new book, Wild Card, is the story of a lady gambler who is hiding in a remote Wyoming town, terrified that the local sheriff will discover she’s wanted for murder in Texas. Susan’s last two books have won her 5

Talented newcomer Lyn Stone is back with her second book, The Arrangement, a unique and touching story about a young female gossip columnist who sets out to expose a notorious composer and winds up first agreeing to marry him, then falling in love with him. Kit Gardner’s The Untamed Heart, a Western with a twist, has a refined English hero who happens to be an earl, and a feisty, ranch hand heroine who can do anything a man can do, only better.

This month also brings us a new concept for Harlequin Historicals, our first in-line short-story collection, The Knights of Christmas. Three of our award-winning authors, Suzanne Barclay, Margaret Moore and Deborah Simmons, have joined forces to create a Medieval Christmas anthology that is sure to spread cheer all year long.

Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you enjoy all four books, available wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell

Senior Editor

Please address questions and book requests to:

Harlequin Reader Service

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Wild Card

Susan Amarillas

SUSAN AMARILLAS

was born and raised in Maryland and moved to California when she married. She quickly discovered her love of the high desert country—she says it was as if she were “coming home.” When she’s not writing, she and her husband love to travel the back roads of the West, visiting ghost towns and little museums, and always coming home with an armload of books. She enjoys hearing from readers. You may write to her at the address below.

Susan Amarillas

P.O. Box 951056

Mission Hills, CA 91395

To my editor, Margaret Marbury, for her skill, her

patience and her encouragement. Thanks, Margaret.

You’re simply the best.

Prologue

Texas 1879

The gun fell from her hand....

The sheriffs body slipped silently to the floor.... Heart racing, Clair watched as the crimson stain on the man’s shirt grew steadily larger. With every frantic beat of her heart she backed away, one faltering step after another. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. Her mind denied the reality of the gruesome scene.

Panic overcame all other thought.

Run!

She flung open the door and slammed full force into the chest of Buck Hilliard, deputy sheriff. He grabbed her hard, his fingers digging painfully into her shoulders through the torn cotton of her dress, his steely gaze focused on the body beside the bed.

“You bitch,” he snarled. “You’ve killed him.”

“I didn’t,” she managed to say, though it was obvious to anyone, including her, that was exactly what she had done. Dimly she realized all sound in the saloon below had stopped.

“Hey,” a man’s voice called up. “Who’s shootin’ up there?”

She met the deputy’s icy blue eyes and she knew she was doomed. Every muscle in her body tensed wire tight. Blood pounded in her neck and her temples. He had her. Trial, jail...and worse.

Terror merged with a lifetime of self-preservation. “Let me go!” she ordered, struggling as she did.

He was still staring at the body when, without a word, he did just that. He let her go. She didn’t wait to ask questions. She shouldered past him and raced full-out toward the rear door, her red satin skirt hitched up around her knees.

Behind her, she heard the men clamoring up the stairs, their voices raised in question, heard the creak of door hinges as someone upstairs probably looked out. The sound of another shot increased her panic.

She glanced back quickly and didn’t see anyone. The deputy was gone—inside the room, most likely, she thought in the fleeting instant before she yanked open the back door.

Down the outside stairs she sprinted, taking them two at a time, the weathered wood creaking and flexing under each urgent step.

Run!

Escape was her only choice. They’d never believe her. Not her, not when their sheriff was dead on the floor of her room.

Down the dark alley between the buildings she fled, careful to keep in the shadows.

She lost her balance in the soft earth. Her hand slammed against the wood siding of the wall and she got a palmful of splinters for her effort.

“Where is she?” a man’s angry voice shouted from the doorway above.

There was no turning back now, no time for explanations.

“Find her!” came another’s voice. “She’s killed the sheriff.”

Like the answer to an unspoken prayer, she spotted several horses tied to a hitching rail in the street. Wild-eyed, her body shaking with fear, she plunged out into the open street.

“There she is!” a man yelled, and she turned in time to see him pointing at her from his place near the saloon doors. Lamplight shone through the windows and landed in a yellow-white square in the center of the street.

She darted through the light—no sense pretending they didn’t know where she was. Her only hope now was that damned horse.

She grabbed a fistful of mane and rein and somehow managed to swing up into the saddle.

Angry men surrounded her, pulling at her, grabbing her.

“Get away from me!” she-screamed, slapping, pushing anything she could think of.

The horse twisted and whirled like the beginning of a tornado. Clair hung on for her life.

“Murderer!” a man shouted, leaping up to clutch her arm, his fingers clamping on to her wrist.

She kicked him in the chest with her foot. Stunned, he fell back, landing in the dirt. At the same instant she drove her heels rib-cracking hard into the horse’s sides.

The animal reared up, screaming its protest—and hers, it seemed. Men scrambled clear of the flying hooves.

She spotted the opening and raced through and into the night.

Chapter One

Wyoming 1879

It was hard to say anything good about Broken Spur. Of course the same was true for most of the cattle towns west of the Mississippi, and in the three months since she’d fled from Texas Clair felt as though she’d seen every single one of them.

But this was a first time for her in Wyoming. As for Broken Spur, it was a quarter mile of dirt street as bumpy as the bark on a cedar tree, if there’d been any cedar trees, which there weren’t. There were no trees at all, not as far as anyone could see, and that was clear to hell and gone, it seemed.

Tired, back aching, Clair squinted up at the late-afternoon. sun and, shielding her eyes, couldn’t help thinking that a little shade would be nice right about now. That sun was darned hot on this navy blue dress of hers. Little beads of perspiration formed on her back and trickled down her spine inside her corset in an annoying itch she couldn’t scratch. And she wondered for about the millionth time in her life what fiendish mind had devised this instrument of female torture.

The stage driver handed over her carpetbag. “Thanks,” she said with a smile. “Are there any saloons in town?”

The husky driver gave her a wide-eyed look of astonishment. “Ma’am?” he muttered, snatching off his hat to wipe perspiration from his forehead with a red bandanna. “Excuse me. Did you say saloons?”

Absently she brushed at the dust coating the front of her dress. “Yes. Are there any?”

He slapped his hat back on his head, tugging on the brim as he did. “Well, yes, ma’am there’s two. The... ah. Lazy Dog over there—” he pointed across the street and south “—and the Scarlet Lady two doors down the other way on this side.”

A mischievous little smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Thanks,” she replied without further explanation. She couldn’t help chuckling. She always took a little perverse pleasure in making men wonder what she was about.

She hefted her one and only carpetbag and started off down the sun-bleached pine of the sidewalk, taking care not to catch her foot or hem on the uneven boards. Her heels made a steady clip-clop as she went.

She passed several people, women mostly, and she smiled. “Afternoon.” She kept walking, glancing in store windows as she did, checking her appearance in the reflection there. Not bad, she thought, adjusting her hat a little more to the left, brushing at her skirt front again. It was a miracle she looked decent, considering she’d been bouncing around on that stage for the better part of three days now.

She was tired and dirty and would have sold her soul for a hot bath and a soft bed. But business first.

She passed Nelson’s Grocery, with a sign in the window proclaiming a sale on yard goods, then angled across the street in front of Nellie’s Restaurant. The smell of freshly baked apple pie made her stomach growl, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Lunch later, she promised herself, glancing over her shoulder at the restaurant as though to cement the pledge in her mind. A couple of cowboys rattled past in a buckboard loaded with crates; they tipped their hats and she nodded her response.

The Lazy Dog was the last building on this end of the street, and she paused outside to give the place a quick once-over. It was large, square and reasonably well cared for. A one-story false-front with an alley separating it from the other buildings. The name of the establishment was emblazoned in a curve of faded red letters on the front window. Being cautious, she looked in through the glass trying to get a feel for the place, trying to make sure if there was anyone in there she wanted to...avoid.

Pushing open the doors, she walked inside and got the usual double take from the three cowboys seated at a table near the end of the bar. The man behind the bar had a scowl cold enough to freeze milk. She didn’t speak to anyone, just scanned the room.

The floor was bare. That was good; she always hated sawdust clinging to her skirt. The place looked pretty quiet, but it was only afternoon—around three, she thought—and saloons didn’t really come alive until after sundown when the men finished working.

A mahogany bar took up the length of one wall, and six—no, eight—tables were scattered around the room. The wallpaper was so faded the dark flowers dissolved into the cream-colored background. A half dozen stuffed animal heads decorated the walls—elk mostly, and one antelope. Over the bar there was a painting of a well-endowed nude.

The air smelled stale and acrid from too much tobacco and whiskey and sweat.

The barkeep was a slick-haired little guy who was staring at her with all the fierceness of a bulldog. He toyed with his flimsy excuse for a mustache that appeared to have enough wax to make a candle jealous. She took an instant dislike to the man.

Arms braced on the bar’s surface, he leaned forward, his white shirtsleeves pulling tight against his wrists. “Lady, if you’re on one of them temperance crusades you can save your trouble and just move on,” he told her in a voice that rubbed on her nerves. “This here is a saloon, not a sideshow. So just turn your behind around and sashay right on out of here.”

The three cowboys lounged back in their chairs, laughing.

“Come on, lady,” the barman prompted. He made a shooing gesture with his hand. “Or do I have to come around this bar and move you out?”

Clair hesitated for a full five seconds. His type always rankled her and she was tempted to tell him just what she thought of him. But she didn’t. She didn’t want any trouble. She didn’t want to attract any...unpleasant attention to herself, all things considered. So she bit back her deliciously sharp retort and merely said, “Too bad, mister. It’s your loss.”

Turning on her heel, she strode out the door, which she slammed just as hard as she could. Hey, she had to do something with that temper of hers, didn’t she?

Outside, the sun was high overhead. A pair of blackbirds perched on a hitching rail squawked but didn’t move as she went past. She skirted a supply wagon parked in front of Hansen’s Hardware and cut across the street, the dirt marble-hard against her shoes.

A breeze tugged at her upswept hair and she had to fuss with pushing a stray lock back under the rim of her hat.

On down Front Street she continued purposefully toward the opposite end of town and the only other saloon Broken Spur had to offer. This one was two stories and shared a common wall with Brownell’s Feed and Grain, and it sure looked the worse for wear. The outside was raw wood. weathered and cracked from too much sun and too little paint. The one large window hadn’t been washed since Noah was a boy, judging by the dirt and mud splattered there.

Over the doorway someone had nailed up a handmade sign proclaiming this to be the Scarlet Lady Saloon. Scarlet Lady, huh? Sounded good to her.

Feeling a little more confident, she pushed open the door and went inside. It took a couple of seconds and a little blinking for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The place was pretty much the same layout as the first, though this one was more rectangular than square. The bar ran the length of the left side of the room and the walls had the added elegance, if you could call it that, of wainscot halfway up—though it was anyone’s guess what kind of wood it was, it was so black with dirt and stains.

The nose-stinging scent of unemptied spittoons permeated the air, and dust motes drifted in the sunlight that managed to filter inside.

A dozen tables were mismatched with an equally odd assortment of chairs. The floor hadn’t seen the business end of a mop in a week of Sundays. A big yellow dog, with a tail as long as a whip, was licking up beer from under one of the chairs.

With a heft of the carpetbag, which was getting heavier by the minute, she walked over to the bar, careful to keep her distance from those spittoons, and tried not to look at the paintings of nudes on the wall.

“Afternoon,” she said to the rotund man who was eyeing her suspiciously.

. “Lady, you sure you’re in the right place? This ain’t no tea parlor.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. His black vest tugged dangerously at the buttons holding it closed over his bulging stomach.

“I’m sure.” Well, at least he was being civil—sort of. Better than the other place. She was hopeful.

She let the carpetbag drop to the floor with a thud, glad to put the thing down for a while. She flexed her fingers to work out the cramps.

“You ain’t temperance, is you?” the man prompted.

“No. Not temperance.”

He seemed to think on it for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, girlie. It’s up to you.” He wiped at a spot in front of her on the bar. “What can I do for you?”

“I think it’s more what I can do for you.”

Clair turned around and surveyed the room again. It was dark, dingy, with paint peeling from the ceiling over near the front doors. Common sense said she should swallow her pride and go back to the other ptace—at least there were customers there. This place was clearly the poorest of the two, the underdog.

Ah, well, now, she always did have a weakness for underdogs. Probably because she’d always been one herself. Besides, she thought with a ghost of a smile, how could she walk away from a place called the Scarlet Lady?

Instead, she said, “Business slow?”

The man stopped his cleaning. “A little. You gonna order, or what?”

Clair had worked in saloons a long time and she knew her way around men—most of the time. Taking her hat off, she slid the long hat pin through the blue satin, then put it lightly on the bar in front of her. “What do you do for entertainment around here?”

“Huh?” He raked her with an explicit gaze. “Why, honey,” he said in a voice rich with innuendo, “you don’t look the type. You lookin’ for a job...girlie?” His mouth quirked up in a lecherous excuse for a smile that revealed a broken front tooth.

Clair didn’t falter. She was in her element. She did, however, put him straight. “I don’t do that kind of work.”

His smile disappeared faster than the setting sun. “What kind, then?” He went back to rubbing that same spot on the bar. “I don’t need no one to clean and—”

“That point is debatable, but if you’d like to increase your business I suggest having someone to play cards.”

If thoughts were sounds she would have sworn she heard the wheels turning; she half expected to see steam coming out of his ears. “Cards?” he muttered, rubbing his beard-stubbled double chins.

She knew the instant the whole picture came together in his mind. His eyes widened and he regarded her with new interest. “You?” Incredulity was obvious in his baritone voice.

“Me.” Without hesitation, she produced a deck of cards from her drawstring reticule and thumbed the ends, making a fluttering sound like a stick on the spokes of a wagon wheel.

“I like a game of cards as much as any man, girlie, but...”

Crossing to a table, Clair dragged out a chair and sat down. “You name it and I can play it.” She gestured for him to join her and he obliged. “Five-card all right with you?”

“Huh, yeah, sure.”

She dealt and he watched like a man trying to keep track of the pea under the walnut shells.

They played six hands.

She won six hands.

He frowned. “You think you’re pretty slick, don’t you?”

“I think I’m good, if that’s what you mean.”

Clearly he wasn’t a man who liked to be bested. “Hold on there.” He retrieved a fresh deck from a drawer behind the bar and slit the seal with his dirty thumbnail. “Let’s try that again...with my deck.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “You deal this time.” She wanted him to know that she was good, not a cheat.

Up till now there’d been no money wagered. Clair was merely demonstrating, proving her ability to do what she said she could do. Men liked the notion of taking on a woman. They got all loud and know-itall and took for granted that they could win.

Mostly, Clair was lucky. Though ever since Texas, well, her luck had taken a turn for the worse. Now, there was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. Ever since Texas her luck had been harder to find than an ace high straight. All of which was why her bankroll consisted of exactly fifty-seven dollars. Not a lot when you have to be your own banker.

“One dollar,” the man said, tossing the money on the table.

“Look, we don’t have to—”

“One dollar. Put up or shut up.”

Reluctantly, Clair matched his bet.

Six more hands and she was up by eight dollars, which was a lot of money; it was a week’s room rent and a couple of dinners.

Could it be? Was her luck changing? Something was happening. She glanced appreciatively around the worn-out saloon once more. Maybe it was one Scarlet Lady to another, this change in her luck. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to question it, just enjoy it.

When he started to deal another round, she stopped him with a touch on his sleeve. “So how about it?”

The barkeep lounged back, folding his hands over his barrel chest like a man in a coffin. He looked at the cards that he’d been dealing and the money still on the table. His gaze rose. “You been gambling long?”

“Long enough,” she told him, not willing to give him her personal history, not after Texas. Absently she shuffled the cards, feeling more at home with them in her hands.

He cocked his head to one side. “I don’t want no trouble. Women and saloons—”

“There won’t be any trouble. Just more business... which it looks as though you could use.” She lounged back, the chair creaking as she did.

“I suppose.” He let out a long, slow, thoughtful breath. “I ain’t bankrolling you. You understand that?”

“I’ll play for myself. Whatever I make I keep. You get the extra business at the bar. Having me here won’t cost you.anything.”

“When do you want to start?”

“Tonight.”

He gave a sharp nod. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She beamed and shook his paw of a hand. “My name’s Clair.”

“Bill Mullen.”

“Nice to meet you, Bill. You are the owner, right?”

“Yeah.” He stood and started for the bar.

She picked up the money. “Is there a boardinghouse?”

“Addie Hocksettler’s. Middle of the street, blue clapboard. Sign’s in front,” he added.

“By the Lazy Dog, right?”

He glanced back over his shoulder. “You know Slocum?”

She frowned. “Who?”

“Slocum. Beady-eyed little runt. Owns the saloon.”

“We’ve met.”

His expression turned dark. “Say ...did he send you here? ’Cause if he did—”

“No one sends me anywhere.” She cut across his words. “I met a man—I guess it was him—a while ago. We didn’t hit it off.”

Mullen made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Man’s been trying to run me outta here for—” He broke off, as though thinking better of what he was saying. Not that she cared about his troubles—she had more than enough of her own. All she wanted was a place to do her work for a few nights, maybe a week, if business was good. She put her hat on, adjusting the pin in her upswept hair. “I take it you and Slocum aren’t friends.”

Mullen circled behind the bar. “One of these days I’m gonna...” He looked at her directly, straightening as he did. “You said tonight.”

“I’ll be here.” She picked up her carpetbag.

“I’ll tell the boys when they come in,” he called to her as she headed for the door. “And I’ll be wanting to get them eight dollars back.”

“You’re welcome to try,” she said as she stepped outside, a smile on her lips.

Thank you, Scarlet Lady.

By seven she was comfortably seated at the table nearest the window and in plain view through both the window and the propped-open front doors. The place was empty, but it was the first of the month and payday. The cowboys from the local ranches should be coming into town—at least, that’s what Bill had told her when she’d returned from getting settled in her room at the boardinghouse.