Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Disgusted, Charity suddenly sat down. The braves taunted her with Indian jibes, but they soon tired of their sport and went to build a fire. As she’d hoped, the brave with the braid then came over to untie her bindings. Charity gave him a grateful half-smile before staggering to her feet, and as she rounded the corner of the sod shack, his halting English stopped her:

  “Don’t run far, Hair of Flame. Got you this time.”

  Turning to stare at him, Charity caught a glimmer in his obsidian eyes that made her insides shrivel. What did he mean, this time? And where on God’s earth did he expect her to run?

  When she’d relieved herself, she leaned against the crumbling soddie to collect her thoughts. The aroma of cooking meat wafted her way, but the thought of eating a scavenger’s leftovers sickened her. She made a face when the headbanded warrior offered her a greasy leg joint; he shrugged and walked back to the fire, tearing into the meat himself. Charity longingly recalled the steak she’d shared with Dillon . . . tender bread and loving golden eyes and the clove scent of him were memories so sharp she nearly cried out—until her kidnappers grabbed her roughly between them. They were breaking camp to ride on into the dusk.

  She was once again hoisted up in front of the taller, black-haired brave with the beaded headband. Did they never rest their poor horses? How did they expect to travel in the dark? Her stomach rumbled; she licked her parched lips and stared ahead at the nothingness as night’s shadows fell around them. Her eyes grew heavy in spite of her intentions to remain alert, and lulled by the steady rolling of the pony’s back, Charity’s thoughts lingered on Dillon before she drifted off. He was nuzzling her hair, whispering against her temple with the tightness in his voice that betrayed his desire. . . .

  But the hand pinching her breast was not her husband’s, and Charity awoke with a cry. It was daybreak, and they were surrounded by a ragtag assortment of Indians who eyed her sullenly, as though they recognized her. Most were dressed in a combination of white men’s clothing and Indian garb, which gave the impression that they belonged to neither race. Her captor’s arm tightened possessively beneath her bosom, and as he made a triumphant announcement to the crowd, the listless red faces took on more life. The men studied her with calculating expressions, while the women threw her contemptuous glares before tending their morning chores.

  Charity then realized they were in a camp, where underdressed children scampered between the lodge tents with wolflike dogs. “Wh-what’s happening? Why did you bring me here?” she demanded in a raspy voice.

  The brave with the braid caught her as his friend pushed her off the pony. “You become Cheyenne!” he crowed. “When sun dance across sky, you be Soaring Eagle’s squaw!”

  Her mouth dropped open and the Indian wearing the headband—Soaring Eagle, she now realized— leered down at her from atop his horse. “But I’m already married! I can’t—”

  “Not married to Soaring Eagle. Not yet,” the brave who held her replied. His grip tightened and he steered her toward the tall, pale tents. “You make him promise—you keep now. No more run away.”

  “But I never even saw him before—”

  “Do not anger gods with forked tongue, Hair of Flame,” her captor warned. He lifted the flap of a tent that was separated from the others. “Eat. Rest, spirit must be clean. We wait . . . for Hair of Flame to be ready.”

  “Then you’ll wait till hell freezes over, you—” The muscular Indian shoved her into the dim tent and secured its flap from the outside. Charity scrambled clumsily toward the opening, her muscles in agony after the long hours on horseback, but the flap was tight. She heard low male voices outside. She was trapped, under guard until she became ready. Whatever that meant.

  The only object in the tent was a pallet of worn blankets, which lay crumpled beside the circle of ashes in the center of the dirt floor. Charity flopped onto it, too exhausted to try to escape. She bunched one end of the dusty blanket under her head and was just sinking into sleep when daylight fell across her face. Bolt upright, she watched the wizened old woman who was entering the tent.

  The ancient squaw returned her distrustful gaze with eyes that were as dark as a moonless night. Then she set a battered tin plate of corn cakes on the floor. A piece of buckskin was folded over her arm, and she tossed it toward Charity with a grunt. It was a beaded, fringed dress that looked too detailed to be worn for everyday. Charity scowled. “I suppose that’s some sort of ceremonial gown, and you expect me to—”

  “Shut up. White slut to be dressed when Soaring Eagle come,” the old woman said in a guttural voice. “You and raven-haired snake deserve to die. When Soaring Eagle make you slave, you wish for death.”

  Raven-haired snake. Charity was struggling to comprehend what the wrinkled squaw meant when the tent flap was raised again to admit Soaring Eagle himself.

  “Rise, Hair of Flame. Woman who keep Cheyennes waiting dishonors bridegroom,” he stated curtly.

  “You are not my bridegroom, and I refuse—” Charity yelped when the muscular redskin jerked her to her feet. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  The warrior’s laughter sounded like a snarl. “Soaring Eagle keep you here so dark partner come for you,” he grunted. “Then, when two-faced bastard dead by my hand, you pay for lying and starving my people.”

  Charity’s mouth dropped open as she realized who this brutal redskin had to be referring to. “But—but I’m not the woman who—”

  “You dress now, for marriage ceremony,” Soaring Eagle commanded with a shake that made her teeth rattle. “Then you eat, so—”

  But Charity wasn’t listening. She glared up into his haughty brick-colored face and said, “If you think for one minute the United States government or my husband will let you—”

  “Government—hah!” Soaring Eagle grabbed the front of her green gown and tore it with a force that sent her reeling backward. “White man’s government care nothing for Cheyenne and nothing for you. Only out to cheat and grow fat while Indian nation die off.”

  She had to appeal to his sympathies—had to prove she wasn’t the woman who’d betrayed his people—but his flaring nostrils told Charity to consider her own safety first. Despite her dust-smudged face and bedraggled hair, he was leering at the gap in her clothing, ogling the pale green camisole Dillon had purchased when she became his bride. “Please, Mr. Eagle,” she pleaded. “If you’ll let me explain ...”

  She landed in a heap on the pallet, and Soaring Eagle gave the old woman a command in Cheyenne. The squaw retrieved the plate of corn cakes and turned to go, but then wheeled around and spat vehemently in Charity’s face.

  Charity was still gaping, spittle running down her cheek, when the Indian tore her dress until it was hanging in two ragged halves. He dropped a canteen beside her and straightened to his full height. “When Hair of Flame see reason, I return with food and prepare her for marriage.”

  Bright daylight blinded her for a moment, and then she was alone in the dusky tent. Charity grasped the edges of the green satin gown, shaking with silent sobs. It was the nicest dress she’d ever worn, a token of a husband who couldn’t possibly save her from a fate too frightening to think about.

  And Mama was to blame for all this. Charity thought back to when she’d first seen the two Indians staring at her in Wichita. They obviously thought she was Maggie Wallace, and that her raven-haired snake of a partner had used her in a conspiracy that led to great suffering here on the reservation. How had Erroll Powers cheated these people, to make the two redskins bold enough to kidnap a white woman in broad daylight? If she ever got out of here, she vowed to find out.

  Wiping the spit from her cheek, Charity sighed. Her backside and legs ached from hours on horseback; her hair was dirty and tangled, and her face felt scorched. She was trembling with hunger, and her head was throbbing. Escape was out of the question right now.

  Perhaps if Soaring Eagle thought she intended to marry him, he would allow her to recover from their grueling ride. What ma
n would want his family and friends to see his bride looking so miserable? Slowly she stood up, every stiff muscle in her body rebelling, and replaced the ruined satin gown with the dress of beaded buckskin. Then she eased down onto the pallet again, to rest and plan her strategy. A sip from the canteen was so refreshing she had to refrain from gulping the water.

  Charity was nearly asleep before she realized something was desperately, dangerously wrong. Her thoughts jumbled. Images of Soaring Eagle and the bitter squaw floated in her mind, yet she couldn’t remember where she’d seen them. Dillon’s face haunted her—he was trying to warn her about something, his garbled voice fading in and out. Charity tried to sit up, hoping to clear her head, but the tent whirled madly around her and she collapsed again.

  In her more lucid moments she suspected her water was drugged. She was vaguely aware of the old squaw peering at her and of Soaring Eagle’s occasional visits. How many days and nights had she been his prisoner?

  Her sense of smell was heightened: aromas from cooking food tormented her, and Charity knew the moment her arrogant captor entered the tent because his body odor was nauseating. Perhaps it was this reflex that kept her mind alert enough to refuse his demands. Each time he left the tent he hurled insults at her as he carried away the corn cakes he’d tempted her with. All she had was the canteen of water—water that held her hostage, yet kept her alive.

  Then came the day when Soaring Eagle yanked her to her feet. “We marry,” he announced brusquely. “No more wait for Hair of Flame.”

  Charity felt her body swaying as she blinked to keep the savage’s face in focus. He was wearing a feathered headdress and buckskin breeches—and the grin of a victor. “Broken Willow braid your hair now. We marry and then eat, so you be strong for Soaring Eagle’s mating.”

  Every pore of Charity’s body revolted at the thought of coupling with this crude warrior, yet she was powerless to prevent such a fate. Broken Willow, the hag who spat on her, was now dragging a gap-toothed comb through her matted hair. Charity whimpered when it bit her scalp; she tasted blood and then realized she was biting her lip to keep from crying. All these sensations were hopelessly disjointed as she was escorted from the dim tent into dazzling sunlight. Dozens of dark eyes mocked her, while from somewhere behind her a primitive flute and drum began to play.

  Then, from a distance, came a shout—two voices, hollering above the discordant music, until the crowd turned to see who was causing the commotion. Charity heard thundering hooves and saw four riders approaching at a gallop: two were clad in black, flanked by two crowing Cheyenne braves. Soaring Eagle raised his hand for the ceremony to stop.

  Before his escorts could grab him, one of the white men dismounted and scrambled toward her, his golden hair flashing in the sun. “Charity! Charity!” he called out.

  She gazed at the man’s handsome, mustached face but he remained a stranger. He grabbed her hands, talking rapidly in words she recognized as English but which held no meaning. Had she passed on to the next world, to be ushered to God’s throne by this golden angel who radiated compassion and the essence of ...

  Cloves. Just as Charity identified his familiar scent, just as her drugged mind was searching for the name that seemed a step beyond her reach, Soaring Eagle’s friends seized the intruder.

  “You not belong here!” the warrior declared. “White man no watch sacred ceremony of the Cheyennes.”

  “This is my wife!” the blond protested, struggling against the braves who were grabbing his arms and legs. “She’s not Maggie Wallace! And she’s never even met Erroll Powers!”

  Soaring Eagle raised an eyebrow. “Her name Hair of Flame now. She trick me—betray my people—and now she become squaw.”

  “I can prove you’re wrong! I have a picture of the woman you’re after, and it’s not Charity!”

  Somehow the man broke free and pulled a photograph from inside his black duster, and the likeness he flashed at Soaring Eagle tripped a switch in her memory. She knew this blond man, and she recognized the three people in the photograph as—

  “Hair of Flame! And Black Weasel!” the warrior beside her exclaimed. He grabbed the photograph from his challenger’s hand and held it up beside Charity’s face. “Who this? Only saw one Hair of Flame on reservation.”

  The word finally came to her, and Charity gasped, “Mama!”

  Soaring Eagle scowled. “Then who you?”

  “She’s Charity Scott Devereau,” a voice boomed through the crowd, “and if you don’t unhand her this minute, the United States Army will send every last one of you heathens to your happy hunting grounds.”

  Her heart beat faster. “Papa!”

  “He’s right,” the golden-haired man chimed in. “We alerted the authorities in Wichita that my wife was abducted by you and your friend here. Turn her loose, and we’ll cause you no further trouble.”

  Charity was nearly choked by the possessive arm that snaked around her shoulders. “Hair of Flame to be my squaw,” her captor challenged. “White man want her, white man must win her from Soaring Eagle.”

  Devereau knew he had to proceed with utmost caution: Scott’s insults could ruin any chance for escape, and Charity was obviously unable to assist him. Her glassy eyes and trembling, rail-thin body scared the hell out him, because he suspected she didn’t know who he was. He’d attracted the attention of some braves hunting near the reservation’s boundary, to keep the men in the camp from opening fire when two uninvited palefaces demanded

  their hostage. And now it was up to him to prevent all three of them from becoming the Cheyennes’ prisoners.

  He reached into his vest pocket for the money he’d won at Fred McCurdle’s. “You play cards?” he asked, knowing most redskins were eager gamblers. “If you win, you keep Hair of Flame and have enough money for guns or whiskey or whatever you want. If I win, the woman is mine . . . and maybe I’ll be grateful enough to give you some of the cash. A goodwill gift from a white man to the Cheyenne.”

  Noah opened his mouth to object, but Dillon silenced him with a nudge. “Either way, you can’t lose, Soaring Eagle,” he continued in a low voice. “But just so you won’t be misled, I’ll warn you that I’m very, very good at poker. Takes a helluva man to beat me.”

  The powerful brave gave him a cocky grin. “We play with my cards. But only one game. Soaring Eagle hot to bed red-haired squaw.”

  Charity looked on as though from behind a glass curtain: the blond man and her kidnapper set up to play with cards that were decorated with primitive hatchets and horses. She heard them clarifying the rules of the single game that would determine her fate, but she felt oddly removed from these events. She was seated on the ground between two of Soaring Eagle’s friends, across the low table from the man she recognized as Papa. He was mouthing words she couldn’t understand, so she turned her attention to the arresting blond instead. The entire camp looked on, silent, as the slender white man shrugged out of his duster and prepared to play.

  His agile fingers arranged the cards Soaring Eagle dealt; his face assumed a calm expression that was achingly familiar . . . if only she could remember where she’d seen this amber-eyed gambler! His dusty clothes complemented his lean physique—he was obviously wealthy, with that gold watch fob draped across his vest, yet he was playing for her. Charity brushed at the ill-fitting buckskin dress, too ashamed to meet his eye.

  Dillon struggled to concentrate on poker, but the waif seated a few feet away tugged at his heartstrings. Soaring Eagle bluffed an amateurish, too-confident game, and even though Devereau had drawn cards that completed a full house, he sensed the Cheyenne would declare himself the winner no matter what cards he held.

  When the betting ended with all of Devereau’s cash on the rough table, Soaring Eagle laid out his hand. “Three chiefs! Hair of Flame belong to me!”

  Dillon carefully displayed his own cards. “But we agreed beforehand that a full house beat anything except a royal flush. So I’m the winner.”

  The redski
n rose suddenly, as though he suspected trickery. Then he pounded the table with an exuberant fist. “Squaw like Hair of Flame no ordinary prize. Must also win red man’s contest to claim her.”

  Dillon wasn’t surprised that his host had changed the rules, but his temper was rising—until he saw Charity’s forlorn, empty eyes fastened upon him. Outnumbered as they were, this was no time to risk their safety. “What sort of contest did you have in mind?” he asked in the most gracious tone he could muster.

  “Horse race!” Soaring Eagle declared. “Real man need stallion’s power to do justice to red-haired filly.”

  The thought of this foul-smelling Indian riding his wife gave him the strength to curb his protests. It would be a sign of weakness to suggest a tamer sport, since he had named the first game himself. “Two out of three,” he countered. “If I lose this contest, I name the final one.”

  The redskin let out a haughty laugh, sneering at Devereau’s uncalloused hands. “If you survive, berdache, we play any game you can manage.”

  Jackson Blue had often slighted his masculinity with that insult, but anger was his worst enemy right now. Soaring Eagle would win this contest and they both knew it, because Dillon was obviously not a skilled equestrian.

  Even worse, the camp had come to life. The women were stealing covert glances at him while the men exchanged personal objects and coins . . . betting, not on whether he’d win, but on how long he would last. The crowd was now walking eagerly toward a large open area beyond the lodge tents, where the Indians held their sporting events. Soaring Eagle directed some younger braves to set long poles between two pairs of forked branches that stood at the far end of the field.