Wild Card

She’d pressed the creases out of her working dress—burgundy satin, black lace trim, cut low enough in front to be, what was the French—oh, yes, risqué. Part of the image, she confirmed, fluffing the lace.

She wore no jewelry—didn’t have any to wear, having lost it and everything else when she’d fled an angry mob.

“Get her!”

“Murderer!”

Clair blinked hard against the sudden terrifying words and forced herself to focus on the reality of the present She was here, a long way from Texas, a long way from that grim night.

You can’t change the past.

That was for sure. Besides, things had taken a turn for the better. Why she hadn’t been in this town but a few hours and already she had a place to work and was up eight dollars.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Seven of those newly won dollars had gone toward a week’s rent at the boardinghouse, so her bankroll was untouched—an important factor for her these days.

“Feels like rain.” Bill’s gruff voice broke into her musings. “I’m getting mighty tired of rain. You know, it never rains in California in the summer and there’s places there where it never snows. Ain’t that something?”

“So I’ve heard.” She glanced up to see him standing at the doorway, peering out at the darkening sky. “I guess this means it’ll be a slow night.”

Bill only shrugged in answer.

“Maybe the rain will hold off,” she said hopefully. Rain meant muddy roads, which meant that cowboys couldn’t get to town. All she needed was a couple of good days. She wasn’t asking for much, no milliondollar bets, just enough to get her to the next town and the one after that and the one after that....

Shaking her head to dispel her dismal thought, she dealt the cards out on the table, her fingers brushing over the gouged surface as she did.

Bill wandered over, his boots thudding on the floor. “Solitaire?”

“Keeps my fingers nimble.”

With a nod, Bill went to light the three kerosene lamps suspended from the ceiling down the center of the room. The metal shades clinked against the glass as he worked.

Red six on the black seven...

She glanced hopefully toward the street, scanning the sky beyond. The air felt damp and heavy, quiet, as though in anticipation of something. An involuntary shiver shimmied over her skin and she tensed against the feeling. This was silly. She was being silly. Still, the feeling of eerie foreboding lingered just a minute longer.

Black eight on the red nine...

You’re just jumpy, tired. is all.

Yes, sure, that was all.

Red queen on the black king...

As she played the cards, her nerves calmed. Cards and saloons. It seemed as though she’d spent most of her life sitting in a saloon somewhere playing cards and waiting; waiting for that big hand, waiting for enough money to buy her own place, waiting to settle down.

Settle down, now where had that come from?

Probably being on the run, that’s where.

Why was it a person always wanted the one thing they couldn’t have? Sometimes, late at night, she’d lie awake feeling alone, wondering about the future. Times like that she would have liked to have someone to turn to, someone to lean on.

It’ll take more than luck for that to happen.

Red two on the black three...

Yes, she knew about luck and the lack of it. Clair was a realist and she had absolutely no illusions about who she was or what she did for a living. She crossed her legs, and the satin of her dress rustled as she adjusted the skirt under the confines of the table.

There were those, she knew, who objected to gambling and drinking and other vices mostly. attributed to men. She understood it was easier to blame the temptation—namely her—than the man. But men had been drinking and gambling long before she was born, and they’d probably be doing the same long after she was dead and buried.

If she’d had more choices maybe she’d have done something else, something more...respectable. But there weren’t a lot of choices for women, not poor women, anyway, and Clair Travers had been born dirt-poor in New Orleans. She’d never known her father, and her mother—a good woman—had taken in laundry to try to make ends meet. Clair had seen her mother age ten years for every one on the calendar. She was old by thirty and dead by thirty-seven, and at fourteen Clair had been left alone to fend for herself or starve.

So she’d done laundry and cleaned houses. She’d gotten barely enough to live on, and more than a tolerable amount of groping from the “gentlemen” of the house for all her trouble.

Well, she wasn’t going to end up like her mother, and when that temper of hers had made her dump a pan of scrub water on a certain banker, she’d quit or been fired, depending on whose version you believed. Out of work, with no references, those few choices of hers had disappeared like snow in July.

She’d begged, borrowed and even stolen food when she’d had no other choice. It was something she wasn’t proud of but, dammit, she was nothing if not a survivor. She’d slept in stables and alleys and abandoned buildings, always looking for that better way—always refusing to sell her body as so many women did in desperation. After a year, she’d begun to think there was no hope, that she, like her mother, was doomed to a life of subsistence, only to die early and probably be glad for going.

Then one day she’d seen the boys shooting dice on the dock. Intrigued, she’d stood by and watched. It was a simple game and she’d caught on quickly enough. Like a true gambler, she’d wagered her last three cents on a throw of the dice and won. Another throw and another win. Two more and she was up twenty-five cents and grinning ear-to-ear.

She was a natural, they’d told her. After that she was there on that dock every day. It didn’t take her long to figure out that the boys came around because they were intrigued playing against a scrap of a girl who always seemed to win. It got to be like a badge of honor with them, trying to beat her.

But luckily for her, they couldn’t—not most of the time, at least—so they’d challenged her to other games: poker, monte and faro. She learned fast, got cheated a few times in the beginning, but only a few. She’d learned to defend herself. Yes, Clair had learned to fight and to win, to do whatever it took to stay alive.

By the time she was seventeen, she was playing poker in a local saloon and making a living—not a great living, but she was off the streets and had three meals a day.

Over the past eight years. she’d played in saloons and gambling halls all over the West. She played poker and she played fair. Oh, not that she couldn’t have cheated—she could. But she didn’t need to. She was that good. Even if she hadn’t been as good as she was, well, there was a thing called ethics.

Yes, the lady gambler had ethics. She might have had to fight and scratch for everything she got, but she was no liar and no cheat-a matter of pride.

Black nine on the red ten...

Two cowboys wandered in. They stopped dead in their tracks and stared at her as though she were a three-legged heifer.

A nervous flutter moved through her stomach. These days, strangers always gave her an anxious moment until she realized she didn’t know them—that they weren’t the law. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Pulling the cards into a neat stack, she smiled sweetly. “You gentlemen play poker?”

What do you know, they did. So did about a dozen more who filled the Scarlet Lady that night The rain held off and business was good. She was winning. For the first time in months, she was winning. A smile threatened, but she held it back, afraid of jinxing her new found luck.

She just dealt the cards, made small talk and collected her money. Cowboys stayed a few hands, then left. Bill strolled by every so often, paused to watch a hand or two, then ambled away. She figured he was checking on her, and that was fine. She didn’t mind. Occasionally she’d see him at the bar, talking, taking a drink or two with the customers.

“That’s it for me, ma’am,” a young cowboy said. Scraping the remains of his money into his hand, he left.

Bill surprised her when he plopped down in the vacated chair. “Uh, Bill, shouldn’t you be watching the bar?”

“Bar’s fine,” he replied, his bushy brows drawn down almost to one. Before Clair could argue the point, he banged a handful of money on the table—a mix of coins and notes—and an open bottle of whiskey, one-third empty. Judging by his red-eyed appearance, she knew exactly where that missing liquor had gone.

Seeing Bill at the table got everyone’s attention. Men who’d been at the bar and other tables moved in. The four other men seated at Clair’s table scooted forward, eyes wide, giving everyone a closer view of what was about to happen—whatever that was.

Clair coughed slightly as a puff of smoke circled her head like a gray cloud. The pungent scent of several unwashed bodies permeated her nostrils. Apparently some of these boys didn’t adhere to the notion of a weekly bath.

Bill spoke up, his deep voice loud enough for all to hear. “I been watching you all night and I figure

I can beat you now.” His chin came up in a defiant gesture that got him several pats on the back from those who’d lost a little money over the past few hours.

Clair studied him through narrowed eyes. Under any other circumstances she wouldn’t refuse a man so intent on playing, but this was Bill, the owner. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that losing to a woman gambler would make him angry, had made him angry. If he got his tail in a knot, he’d be bound to send her packing just to save face. He might even call the law, claim he was cheated or such. No, this definitely wasn’t a good idea.

“Bill,” she began in what she hoped was a sweet, soothing voice, “I’d rather not play against you.”

Bill obviously got the wrong impression. His grin got Cheshire-cat big and there was another chorus of encouragement from those gathered. Damn, this wasn’t working.

“I got you scared, huh?” Bill announced triumphantly to her and those backing him up. He dropped a fresh deck of cards on the table in front of him and took a swig of that whiskey straight out of the bottle. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here without me winnin’ back some o’ that money you owe me.” He slit the seal and pulled out the cards with a flourish. A quick shuffle and he removed the jokers from the deck.

“You tell her, Bill,” one cowboy said.

“You can win,” another added.

There was a general egging-on all around.

Now, Clair didn’t mind a little heckling, didn’t mind the men watching, but she did object to the implication that she owed him money. “I won that money fair, Bill. I don’t owe you anything.” Clair shoved back her chair, moving about an inch before she rammed into a lanky cowboy who was intent on leaning over her shoulder.

“Do you mind?” she prompted, assuming he’d step back. He didn’t. She felt cornered, trapped, and the first stirrings of unease swirled in her stomach like storm clouds.

“Come on. Come on,” Bill was demanding. “You ain’t backin’ out.” He took another long swig of whiskey from the bottle and put it down with a thud. Liquor trickled out of the corners of his mouth and he wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Muscles clenched along Clair’s bare shoulders. “I’m tired, Bill. How about later? Tomorrow night?” She tried to stand, pushing harder against her chair with the backs of her legs, and this time managing enough room to rise. She reached for her money. “I was just thinking about calling it a night when—”

“Oh, no, you don’t, woman.” Bill grabbed her hand to stop her, his rough fingers clamping tight around her wrist. Fear exploded in her and she jerked free.

“Don’t!” she flared. “I don’t like to be touched.”

Bill rose out of his chair to mirror her stance. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here without dealing them cards.”

Bill was staring at her, and so were eight or ten cowboys—she was in no mood to count Stetsons. Their expressions ranged from daring to smug confidence.

Damn. This wasn’t good. Why the devil wouldn’t the man take no for an answer? By tomorrow he’d be sober, and grateful she’d refused to play him. Sagging down in the chair, she tried again. “Look, Bill, what say we do this tomorrow when you’re...more your self.”

He sat down, his eyes never leaving hers. “Nope,” he said, punctuating his refusal by slamming his hand, hard, on the tabletop. Money sprang upward like Mexican jumping beans. “What’s the matter? Afraid?” He earned himself another round of encouragement and back slapping.

She was trapped. If she did this, she’d be out of a job. If she didn’t, she’d be branded as unfair or worse by those watching and her chance of playing cards in this town would be over before she got started.

This wasn’t fair, not when her luck had just changed. A quick look around at the faces all staring at her told her she didn’t have a choice.

“Okay.” She relented, adjusting her skirt, the light catching on the satin and making it dance in shades of fiery red. “Two hands.” She figured she’d try to placate him. Absently she traced a long, curving gouge in the tabletop.

“Five,” Bill countered,. his mouth pulled down in a grim expression that said he was determined.

Clair straightened. Her gaze flicked from one intent face to another, then back to Bill. “What is this, an auction? Two hands and then I’m done for the night.” She wanted out, and she figured a couple of hands wouldn’t get her into too much trouble.

“Five.” Bill’s tone was adamant.

Apprehension circled in Clair’s brain. “Five,” she reluctantly agreed. If she could keep the bets small, they could get this over with quickly. “Win or lose, that’s all. Right, Bill?”

Bill’s brown eyes widened with excitement. “Five.” His head bobbed up and down like a pump handle and he was already reaching for the deck of cards. “Five.”

“Show her, Bill,” a wide-faced cowboy in a black Stetson prodded.

Thanks a lot, she thought but didn’t say. She didn’t object to Bill dealing-in fact, she preferred it. There’d be no arguments later about her cheating.

She beat him three out of four, and she guessed she was up about twenty dollars, though she never counted her money at the table.

He kept looking around at all those frowning male companions, the ones he’d been so arrogant in front of, the ones who were never going to let him live this down. Never mind that most of them had also lost at least a few dollars to Ctair—at least they’d been smart enough not to make a public spectacle of the losing.

“All right, Bill, last hand—right?” It was an order, not a question. She shifted in the chair, the wood rough against her bare skin above her dress. That acid in her stomach was swirling with tornado force. One more hand and she was out of this. Twenty dollars didn’t seem so bad—surely he’d understand tomorrow.

Yes he might, but she knew these men wouldn’t. Bill would be the talk of the town for months, and not pleasant talk, either.

He dealt the cards, five to each of them. Clair took a quick peek, careful not to reveal them to the onlookers, then put them facedown on the table again, her fingers lightly resting on the stiff paper.

Bill took a long gulp of whiskey, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat with each swallow, then slammed the bottle down with a bang on the table. “Bet fifty.”

If the man had said “Bet a thousand” she couldn’t have been any more surprised. “Five-dollar limit,” she told him emphatically. She was so close to getting out of this reasonably unscathed.

“My saloon. My rules,” he countered. “Fifty.” Those ogling cowboys all got openmouthed quiet. They crowded the table as though Bill was serving a free lunch and they didn’t want to miss their share. They pressed in so tightly she was actually bent forward, a belt buckle cutting into the base of her neck.

“Hey! Watch it!” she snapped, twisting and pushing the man back with the flat of her hand against his chest.

“Sorry,” he, at least, had the good grace to mutter, though if he moved it was so fractional she could hardly tell.

Shaking her head, she turned and counted out the fifty dollars, which was a hell of a wager in any man’s game.

“Cards?” Bill barked, the deck dwarfed in his big, clumsy hands.

Clair kept her gaze focused on his face. “I’ll play these.”

He hesitated the barest fraction of a second, .his whiskey-hazed eyes honing in on hers. She never flinched, never looked away.

Finally he said, “I’ll get one.” He slapped the card down on the others with a force that threatened to tear the paper. Cautiously, like a man looking under a rock for a rattler, he picked up the cards and fanned them out. She knew the instant he got to that draw card. Something—excitement—flashed in his eyes. She had seen it often enough in men’s faces.

So, she thought, he’d drawn whatever card it was he was wishing for. She figured he either had a straight, probably jack high, or four of a kind—couldn’t be higher than tens.

He straightened in the chair and squared his shoulders beneath his stained white shirt. “A hundred.”

“A hundred! Are you crazy?” She eyed that nearly empty bottle of whiskey. He was drunk as hell, that was for sure. “Now look, I—”

“What’s the matter? Ain’t up for a real game?” he mocked, and several cowboys laughed. The man was practically preening, he was so damned pleased with himself.

A leather-faced cowboy spoke up. “That’s it, Bill. You’ve got her on the run now.” There was more backslapping and grinning.

But Bill’s smile melted faster than ice in summer when he looked down at his money. It was obvious he didn’t have anywhere near a hundred dollars—thank goodness.

“You seem to be a little light there,” she observed, thinking a hundred would clean her out if she lost.

Bill took another slug of liquid courage and said, “I’ll just git the damned money.” He lurched to his feet, swayed and grabbed the shoulder of a plaid-shirted man for support. “Watch my cards,” he commanded, and several men nodded with all the solemnity of being asked to guard the bank vault.

Clair watched Bill make his way to the bar. She had to give the man credit—he walked as straight a line as any man in the place, a hell of a thing considering the amount of whiskey he’d consumed.

She looked around, her eyes stinging from the smoke-filled room. “Look, Bill, we could—”

“Never mind,” he pronounced. “I’ll git the money.”

What could she do? She shook her head and waited while he banged around behind the bar. Maybe he wouldn’t find the money. There hadn’t been that much business tonight and—

“This’ll do it!” he exclaimed, returning to the table.

So much for playing out a lucky streak.

“Okay.” He plunked a piece of paper down with the flat of his hand. “This ‘ere is the deed to the Scarlet Lady. I’m puttin’ her up for the...money.”

For about five seconds you could have heard a pin drop in the place. Clair didn’t believe her ears.

“I don’t want your saloon,” she told him.

“She’s worth a hundred,” he countered in a tone that brooked no challenge.

“I’m sure she is, but—”

Then everyone started talking at once.

“You can take her, Bill.”

“Wait till word gets out.”

“Wait till Slocum hears.”

Clair didn’t care about Slocum or male pride or anything else. Things kept going from bad to worse. Where was all that luck she’d been so sure of only a few hours ago? All she wanted was to sit here and play a few friendly hands of poker. This wasn’t fair. “I don’t want your saloon.”

Bill drained the last of the whiskey from the bottle and put it slowly but firmly down on the table. “If you can’t match the bet, then what are you, scared?”

The cowboys fell silent.

That temper of hers was getting the best of her. She figured she’d done about all anyone could do to be fair, more than fair. Her conscience was clear.

“Have it your way.” She counted out a hundred—all the money she had on the table plus an emergency gold piece she kept sewn in the lining of her reticule.

Bill grinned Christmas-morning big. He put down the cards one at a time as though to savor the victory. “Straight, jack high,” he announced to everyone at once. There were gasps from those present, smiles on most of the faces as all eyes turned to her.

Clair looked at him directly and said, “Four aces.”

Chapter Two

Rain came down harder than a springtime waterfall. It poured off the brim of Jake’s hat and ran in rivulets down his tan slicker, soaking the black wool of his trousers where it was exposed below the hem. It seeped through every opening around his collar and cuffs and generally annoyed the hell out of him.

Overhead the sky was gunshot gray; ominous clouds were snagged on the tops of the mountains and showed no sign of easing away. The rain beat down the buffalo grass and made puddles in the loamy soil.

Jake shifted in the saddle and tucked the last of his breakfast into his mouth. Breakfast—cold jerky and no coffee. No way in hell could he build a fire in this downpour.

“Looks like we’re in for a long one, Tramp,” he said to his gelding as they trudged steadily through the storm. He was headed northwest.

Lightning flashed across the sky, arcing like a long, bony finger pointing the way. Thunder crashed. The packhorse neighed and balked at the sound, pulling the rope Jake had tied to the saddle horn tight against his leg.

“Hey,” he snarled, grabbing the lead and yanking on it where it cut into his thigh. He turned and glared at the horse and the grim cargo that was strapped to the animal’s back. There, wrapped in canvas, was the body of the man he’d sought, the man he’d killed. Ben Allshards.

Jake had been out here alone for the better part of a week chasing Allshards and the man’s partner. He’d followed them from one hole to another, always a half day behind them, always pushing to catch up. He’d finally closed in at Jensen’s, a soddy saloon on what was commonly called the outlaw trail. But Allshards had spotted Jake, and he and his partner had slipped out the back door. To make matters worse, they’d split up.

Jake had had to make a choice. Too bad for Allshards—he’d won the toss.

The wind picked up, sending the rain swirling in odd directions, water pelting Jake on the side of his face. He flipped up his collar and turned his head away. “Damn.”

For two more days and nights Jake had followed wherever Allshards had led. With no sleep, and eating in the saddle, Jake had nearly run old Tramp into the ground, a dangerous thing to do in this unforgiving country. But he’d be damned if he’d give up.

Allshards had broken the law. No one broke the law in Jake McConnell’s territory and got away with it. First and last, Jake was a lawman, second-generation lawman. He believed in justice and fair play, and mostly he believed in the law. Rules to live by or, in an outlaw’s case, rules to die by.

Late yesterday he’d cornered Allshards in a canyon near Angel’s Peak, a strange outcrop of rocks that shot up a hundred feet out of the prairie floor like some misplaced giant spike. Allshards must have figured he could hole up in the small cave at the base. Maybe he figured Jake would get tired, what with the rain and all, and pack it in. Hell, the man had said as much in a little shouting match they’d had along about sundown yesterday.

Now, Jake might be a by-the-book lawman, but nobody ever said he wasn’t fair.

He’d tried to get the man to surrender, had talked to him for quite a while on the subject, but Allshards hadn’t been buying. He’d probably known he was facing a rope for killing that bank teller.

Right after the sun went down, the outlaw had made a break for it and Jake, left with no choice, had done the job the good people of Carbon County paid him a hundred and fifty a month for.

Grim faced, he glanced back at the tarp-covered body once more, the feet bobbing up and down with each slogging step of the horse. Hell of a way for a man to finish his life, he thought with a touch of sadness for the man, and perhaps for himself.