Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Mrs. Thomas lowered her eyes coquettishly. “Linen and broadcloth make the nicest skirts. For dresses you can’t do better than silk or organza. What colors?”

  A glance at Charity told him she was still in her hangover’s nasty grip, so he draped an arm loosely around her shoulders. “Enough for a dress out of the lavender silk, and one from the green-striped bolt,” he said in a thoughtful tone, “and while you’re cutting, we’ll ask you a few questions. Wouldn’t want Will to think we were wasting your time on idle gossip.”

  Charity looked toward the store’s front counter, where Mr. Thomas was trying to wait on a well-heeled gentleman without being obvious about watching them. He was large and bulky, with indistinct features, as though a sculptor had carved him from a block of pale granite and became bored before he finished. She recognized his expression, though: he, too, had the feeling that Phoebe and Dillon were oblivious to the presence of anyone else.

  “Will’s not a sharp enough storekeeper to complain about how I do business,” Phoebe was saying in a low voice. Her scissors flew swiftly across the width of the lavender silk. “But then, Abilene doesn’t need the sort of store Jake Karatofsky used to keep when the cowboys overran us each summer. After you and the cattle left, the place really died back, Devereau. But I guess you’ve noticed.”

  Dillon chuckled. “I can’t take all the blame. The town lost a lot of its luster when Wild Bill was ushered out.”

  Phoebe waved him off with a girlish laugh that made her dark eyes sparkle, and then began unrolling the striped silk onto her wide wooden cutting table. “William Butler Hickok was so full of ’imself I’m not sure he realized why they fired ’im. Married some widow named Agnes—when she came through with the circus, mind you—and headed west to where the gamblin’ was greener.” With a coy shake of her head she glanced surreptitiously toward the front of the store. “You boys didn’t leave me many choices. Wasn’t gettin’ any younger, so I settled for Will a few years back. A decent man—though decency never cut much butter with me, you know.”

  Charity’s head was throbbing harder, and she found Phoebe’s chatter both annoying and inappropriate. She gave Dillon’s ribcage a purposeful nudge with her elbow. “Perhaps you should show her the photograph now.”

  Devereau gave her an indulgent smile and reached for the inside pocket of his coat, but not before Phoebe could continue her prattle.

  “I see you haven’t lost the Devereau charm. Still keeps the ladies pawin’ over you, doesn’t it?”

  Charity felt her color rising with her temperature. How dare this woman behave like such a hussy, making suggestive statements as though she weren’t even there? She snatched the wooden frame from Dillon’s hand and shoved it toward Phoebe Thomas. “Have you seen these people lately?” she demanded. “We thought they might’ve come through town, or we wouldn’t have stopped here ourselves.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly; her manner became catlike as she compared the woman in the picture to Charity. “So Blue wasn’t just shootin’ the breeze,” she said with a knowing grin. “Maggie and Mr. Powers passed through several days ago—it’s been like old home week in Abilene lately. Or was she a legend before your time, Devereau?”

  Dillon shrugged, a bit confused. “I don’t recall ever meeting—”

  “Oh, you’d remember her,” Phoebe replied. She nipped her lush lower lip, as though deciding which sordid details to reveal. “Must’ve been when the Kansas Pacific was bein’ completed, because Powers was here to oversee it—and no woman alive would forget him either. Which was why Mattie catered to ’im herself.”

  Devereau glanced at Charity, who was looking decidedly peaked, and thought he’d better speed the conversation along. “Any ideas where they were going? It’s important that we find them before—”

  “West!’’ she replied with a dramatic flip of her wrist. “It’s where they all go. Probably to Wichita or Dodge, because Ellsworth and Newton are pretty small potatoes to an operator like Erroll.”

  Charity was ready to thank the petite actress and head for the train station to buy tickets, but Dillon was apparently too enthralled by Phoebe’s performance to budge. She gritted her teeth, knowing that whatever else this jezebel revealed about Mama would be aimed right at her heart, to puncture what little pride she had left.

  “Powers was a wise one all right,” Mrs. Thomas continued in a low, animated voice. “Only brought Maggie to Abilene once, because he had trouble keepin’ track of ’er. Seems she had a hankerin’ for cowboys—liked their whips and spurs, I heard—so he checked ’er in at Mattie’s, with firm instructions that Miss Silks was to keep a close eye on ’er. Next thing we knew, the law got called in.”

  Obviously pleased with herself, Mrs. Thomas folded the two pieces of silk into a neat pile. Charity lost all patience when she saw that the woman intended to leave her story unfinished while she took her sweet time replacing the bolts on the shelf. “Well?” she demanded. “Just what did this Maggie do?”

  Wearing a smile that was both devious and delighted, Phoebe turned toward them. “She sneaked out of Mattie’s private quarters and took on a little business for herself—a cattle baron, as I remember it. Got to playin’ ’im a little rough, and all but bit the poor man’s ear off. Made a terrible mess, and—”

  Devereau, seeing Charity’s face pale as though someone had sucked the life out of her, quickly steered his wife toward the door. “Have that parcel delivered to Hathaway House,” he instructed over his shoulder. “I’ll send the money back with your errand boy.”

  Anger like she’d never experienced churned within Charity, and by the time she and Dillon were outside she was ready to explode. She shook herself out of his grasp, glaring at him. “Did you enjoy that little visit, Mr. Devereau? If you intended to shame me all to pieces, you did a damn fine job of it.”

  “Me?” he replied in a purposeful voice. “Honey, we went there because Blue said she—”

  “Don’t play games with me!” she shrieked. “Phoebe’s your old flame—the whore you and Hickok shot it out over. And now you’ve made me feel poor and wretched and homely and—and—”

  Her face became splotchy and tears suddenly drenched her cheeks. Devereau knew he deserved every bitter accusation she could hurl at him, because he should have remembered how vindictive Phoebe could be in the presence of female competition. He hadn’t approved of the way Mrs. Thomas belittled her husband or spoke so suggestively, but it was too late to explain that to Charity now. She was devastated—never mind the jealous streak as green as her overflowing eyes—and she would probably never trust him again. And even though he hadn’t been responsible for Phoebe’s barbs or Maggie’s disreputable behavior, he was sorry Charity had been hurt by them.

  She blustered at him a few moments more, oblivious to the stares of people passing by, and then she wound down like a top about to topple. She rubbed her forehead gingerly, still feeling the champagne’s vengeance. Dillon waited until all her anger had evaporated, and then spoke very gently to her.

  “Charity, I regret what’s happened,” he said, imploring her to meet his gaze with her own. “I’ll understand if you want to stop searching for your mother, honey. We’ll buy our tickets for Kansas City and head home first thing in the morning.”

  She considered his suggestion only briefly before shaking her head. “Forget it, Devereau. A deal’s a deal, and I’m not letting you out of it,” she replied bitterly. “After all, I entrusted my heart and soul to you. Remember?”

  Chapter 14

  Her words still stung the next morning as Devereau settled beside Charity on the train seat. She’d remained distant since their quarrel on Texas Street; not cold—her red-rimmed eyes and pale face proclaimed her misery to all who saw her—but certainly not the loving bride he’d looked forward to entertaining during the ride to Wichita.

  Dillon reached over to steady her when the train lurched away from the station, only to have her shrink from his touch. He could feel her fath
er studying them from the opposite seat, but he didn’t acknowledge the preacher’s presence. He’d traveled hundreds of miles in contented silence when he was a railroad sharp, yet these few moments of his wife’s stifled anguish were already tearing at him. “I—I sent Abe a telegraph this morning. Told him we’d be out awhile longer,” he mumbled.

  Charity nodded and continued gazing out her window. The outskirts of Abilene were giving way to sparse farmsteads and pastureland, which didn’t inspire a reply.

  Dillon shifted to allow her more room. She was leaning against the papered wall of the car, all but pressing her face to the window to avoid looking at him. When the conductor came by and asked for their tickets, he was glad for the intrusion. Had his married friends told him about the wrath of a wife scorned, he would’ve scoffed at their inability to charm their women into talking again. But Charity’s heartache separated the two of them from the other passengers, actors in a painful little drama he was forced to share and understand.

  And he did understand it: Charity, in her sheltered innocence, had romanticized his profession, a freewheeling life that included a few sporting women along the way—until one of those women stepped out of his past and flaunted herself. Not even a seasoned, secure wife would welcome Phoebe Thomas’s flirtatious presence or her advice about clothing. He’d been a fool not to anticipate that. With a sorrowful glance at Charity’s calico dress, he resigned himself to the monotony of a long, silent ride.

  Charity ached all over from avoiding Dillon’s attention, but her physical pain was nothing compared to her frustration. She stared out the window, vaguely aware of the train’s steady rocking as the pastureland and rippling wheat fields passed by, seeing only Phoebe Thomas. The storekeeper’s wife embodied all the graces she could never possess: coquettish charm, flawless beauty, a nimble wit . . . exactly the sort of woman Dillon Devereau should have married. She almost smiled—he did deserve the haughty shrew beneath Phoebe’s opalescent facade, after the way he treated her in the dry goods store!

  Glancing at the nattily dressed man beside her, Charity was surprised to see his brow puckered with uncharacteristic remorse. Gone was the boyish dimple and the smooth, emotionless face he wore to play cards; his eyes belonged to a sad old hound who’d lost his mistress, and she quickly looked away. Perhaps he wanted to explain or apologize, but since Papa and the other passengers were within earshot, there was little chance of that. She excused herself to the front of the car to choose two magazines, and spent the remainder of her ride studying pictures of the latest fashions and hats.

  The sky was overcast when the three of them stepped down onto the platform at the Wichita station. Dillon directed a young boy to see that their luggage got to the Occidental Hotel, and then guided her toward the main part of town with his hand on her elbow. He felt stiffly formal walking beside her. Papa followed a few paces behind them, his footsteps light and jaunty.

  “Certainly looks like rain,” he commented cheerfully. “By tomorrow these streets will undoubtedly resemble a hog wallow.”

  Devereau wondered how the subject of hogs had occurred to the preacher, yet he was glad to be part of a conversation. “A few years back, summer showers were the bane of every merchant and saloonkeeper in town—made for such messy floors, when all the cowboys tromped in, you know,” he added over his shoulder. “But as you can see, a lot of the halls here have also closed and the owners have probably moved on to Caldwell or Dodge.”

  Sighing, he glanced at the young woman who walked so quietly beside him. What could he say to draw her out of her disappointment? How could he erase the shadows that lurked around her woeful green eyes? “I think you’ll enjoy staying at the Occidental,” he offered in a voice that sounded inept even to his own ears. “It’s one of Wichita’s finest lodgings.”

  Charity cleared her throat. “Of course. I—I think I’d like to rest for a while.”

  “Train rides can be tiring,” Dillon agreed as they entered the Occidental’s main parlor. He secured two rooms at the front desk while Charity and her father watched out the window for their luggage. As he escorted them up the hotel’s elegant staircase, he wondered at how he’d changed since he last rented a room here: the bold young Romeo who’d lavished his winnings on many a willing lady was now desperately trying to woo his wife with talk of train rides. Handing Reverend Scott’s key to him, he guided Charity to the next room down the hall.

  She glanced joylessly at the elegant furnishings, avoiding an ornate gilt-edged mirror for fear of what she’d see there. Why did she feel as though they were attending a wake instead of continuing their honeymoon? The room’s window let in the eerie light that preceded an afternoon rainstorm, but looking out to the street below seemed better than lingering awkwardly in the gloom with Dillon, so she went to stand in front of it.

  Charity’s forlorn silhouette made Devereau clench his fists, annoyed with himself. Only two days ago he would have tossed his pretty wife upon the bed and kissed her playfully until she laughed or made love to him. Now her posture signaled that she wished to remain untouched, alone with the agony he’d caused her. “I ... I’ll check around town to see if the locals recognize Powers or your mother from the photograph,” he said quietly. “After you’ve rested, we’ll go downstairs for dinner.”

  “Perhaps,” she mumbled. The door closed behind her, and Charity’s shoulders sagged. Holding Dillon’s past against him was a foolish waste of their time together, yet she couldn’t forget Phoebe’s indiscreet chatter and sparkling eyes. That Mrs. Thomas had been a prostitute wasn’t nearly as unsettling as the knowledge that she’d inspired Devereau to fight for her company. Would he challenge another man for her? As Charity watched his slender form cross the street, she knew the answer didn’t really matter. Once they found Mama, it would be as though she and Dillon Devereau had never met.

  The door behind her opened to admit Papa and the errand boy, who set her suitcase beside the bed and returned to the hallway for a large trunk. Her father reached into his pocket for a coin, and then closed the door behind the boy.

  “I should’ve guessed a dandy like Devereau would travel with such sizable luggage,” he said, all the while studying the pressed-metal pattern on the trunk’s top. “But covering a tip’s the least I can do for my new son-in-law.”

  She was surprised to hear Papa refer to Dillon as part of the family, and more surprised that he sounded pleased about it. Charity sensed he was leading into a lecture, so she gave him a weak smile. “I was hoping to take a nap-—”

  “Which is precisely why I can’t understand the way you’ve shoved Dillon out the door with your cold shoulder,” Papa interrupted. “When your mother and I were newlyweds, you couldn’t have pried us apart with a—that is, we...we couldn’t bear to leave each other’s sight.”

  In light of what they’d learned about Mama this past week, Charity could only glance curiously at her father for admitting such a thing. “He wanted to see if anyone recognized Mr. Powers and—”

  “He was acting extremely patient, considering how little experience he’s had at being turned away by a woman.” Papa studied her face as though it were a passage of Scripture whose deeper meaning eluded him. “No matter what we may think of Devereau’s profession, he’s proven himself a kind, thoughtful man who’s obviously attached to you. What crime has he committed, that you’ve cast him away so soon?”

  Charity stared, unable to answer him. She could recall instances where her father had scorned the handsome gambler to his face, not to mention the ultimatum that led to a marriage for her honor’s sake. “I—I don’t understand how you can defend Dillon all of a sudden, when you used to—”

  “You’re not a little girl anymore, Charity. I realized that when I was ushering you to the altar,” he replied wistfully. He brushed her hair away from her face, a gesture of utmost tenderness from a man who’d bruised her on occasion. “I admit that my means weren’t the noblest, but the end certainly justified them. Which of the hapless lads b
ack home would make you a suitable husband? Devereau can give you everything you’ll ever want, and he respects your intelligence and talent.”

  Charity gazed steadily at her father as tears rose to her eyes. He was being the gentle, concerned parent she vaguely recalled from her childhood—but he didn’t know the truth about Phoebe Thomas, or what she’d revealed. She looked at the floor, knowing that if she mentioned Devereau’s former flame she must also tell what she’d learned about Mama, which would be easier to discuss if Papa weren’t suddenly acting so sympathetic.

  “A bridegroom can inadvertently hurt his new wife in an ... impassioned moment,” her father suggested gently.

  She blushed, unaccustomed to talking about such an intimate topic. “No, he—everything’s fine, Papa,” Charity stammered. He wouldn’t leave her alone until she explained the way she was treating the husband he’d chosen for her, so she took a deep breath. “We talked with a lady friend of Dillon’s yesterday. Someone he knew from when he lived in Abilene.”

  “Ah. I imagine she was a fetching sort,” he said as he adjusted his spectacles. “Devereau wouldn’t be seen with any other kind.”

  “Papa, how can you—”

  Her father grasped her arms gently. “He certainly has eyes for you, daughter. Don’t sell yourself short, just because you married him under unusual circumstances.”

  Confused by Papa’s tenderness, Charity could only utter, “She was a who—prostitute, Papa. It was Phoebe Thomas, from the wedding.”

  His eyes widened, and then he sighed. “Such women flourish where cowboys and gamblers have cash to burn. Devereau has apparently outgrown his penchant for her type, though, or he’d house a few at the Crystal Queen. We should give a man who’s mended his ways—and a woman, who’s married out of that profession—the benefit of the doubt, don’t you think?”

  Papa’s gaze remained calm as he awaited her response. And he had a point: Dillon’s gambling establishment was no brothel. Forgiving his past was the Christian thing to do, but dammit, Phoebe Thomas would’ve dropped her dress the moment she found a way to get Dillon alone! It was then that Charity realized the hussy’s inclinations weren’t her husband’s fault, and she let out her anger in a long, sheepish breath.