Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Devereau pulled Noah aside. “If something happens to me, wait for the Army to—”

  “You fool!” Scott blurted. “These savages will let you ride across the field and then shoot you full of poisoned arrows!”

  He forced an indulgent smile, for Charity’s sake. “It’s a race, Reverend. Each rider gallops full speed toward his crossbar, and the one who stops his mount closest to the pole without touching it—and without flying off his horse—wins. Simple as that.”

  “How in God’s name do you expect to—”

  “I can’t win,” Dillon admitted, “but when my wife’s life is at stake, I can’t back down either. Now if you were to create some sort of diversion ...”

  Devereau could see the workings of the devious minister’s mind, but before Noah came up with an idea, Soaring Eagle clapped his hands to silence the crowd. “We begin,” he called to Dillon from atop his sturdy pony. “Kiss your woman good-bye.”

  It was the best idea he’d heard all day, and as the Cheyennes took their places along the sidelines, he was left standing with Charity and her father. He stroked her sunburnt cheek, his throat going dry when he saw confusion clouding her emerald eyes. She still didn’t know him, didn’t know why he was about to kiss her.

  Dillon gazed at her, memorizing the wisps of auburn hair that defied her unnatural braids, and the sprinkling of freckles on her red nose, and the green, green eyes that seemed to belong to someone else . . . perhaps to a woman who would never recall his name, if the Cheyennes had addled her brains with their potions. And all because he hadn’t kept close enough watch on her.

  He leaned toward her and gently, gently pressed his lips to hers. She didn’t retreat, nor did she respond. She simply accepted his kiss with open eyes and a vacant expression on her face. Devereau wanted to grab the small pistols secreted beneath his waistband and shoot Soaring Eagle off his horse. Instead, he whispered, “I love you, Charity. If you remember nothing else, remember that.” Then he turned toward the mount a chuckling Cheyenne brave was holding for him.

  Charity watched him, her heart beating faster now. He swung onto the horse with a familiar grace, this lithe gentleman with the golden eyes. He tasted kind and sweet, like someone she once knew. . . .

  He was approaching the starting line now, exchanging words with Soaring Eagle. The crack of a pistol sent the two racers into a gallop, kicking up a thick fog of red-brown dust. Charity saw the crossbars they were speeding toward and her breath caught in her throat: surely the horses couldn’t jump that high, so why were they charging straight toward the poles? The crowd was yelling, some of them pushing and straining to see—

  But all she knew was that the scent of him lingered. Charity touched her fingertips to her lips, recalling his firm, tender mouth and the tickle of his mustache. He smelled clean and virile . . . like clove soap, a thought from deep inside her surfaced.

  She gasped, struggling to clear her dazed mind. The riders were heading hell-bent toward those awful crossbars, yet to Charity it suddenly seemed as though their motions had become slow and exaggerated as she watched them . . . inches away now, veiled in thick red dust . . . yanking back on their reins, first Soaring Eagle and then—then—

  “Dillon!” she cried out, her voice echoing inside her head like church bells in a steeple.

  But something was wrong. The crowd of Indians was now deathly quiet, inching back toward the lodge tents, no longer caring about the bone-splitting climax of this gruesome race. Dillon’s mount screamed and reared, and Charity reached for the protection of Papa’s arms.

  Then she saw the apparition approaching the field, astride a tall black stallion decked out in tack that glistened red and silver in the afternoon sun. The rider sat serenely, unaware of the contestants whose mounts had thrown them. He was arrayed in a magnificent red satin robe that shimmered in the breeze, its silver-sequined edging sparkling like a band of diamonds.

  Charity looked at his face and gasped: it was a huge, horned buffalo head. “Papa,” she breathed, “it’s him, it’s—”

  But the agitated crowd closed in around them, jostling her from her father’s arms. Too weak to catch herself, Charity stumbled over his shoes and got lost in a sea of feet.

  Chapter 18

  Charity hovered on the brink of awareness, mentally taking stock of her situation. She was lying on some sort of mattress, with a cool dampness across her forehead. Her stomach growled as a wonderful aroma drifted over her . . . bacon! Men were talking nearby, their familiar voices bringing her closer to consciousness.

  “Not so tight, dammit! You wouldn’t be wrapping my ribs if you’d just ridden onto the reservation, instead of arriving like a damn carnival act!”

  “I saved your three sunburnt necks, didn’t I?” came the lower-pitched reply.

  “You could have saved me busting my butt, had you just put some speed on. I’ll be hobbling around like an old woman for weeks!”

  Charity awoke with a quiet gasp. It was Dillon who was being bandaged—he’d survived that awful fall from his horse!—and Jackson Blue was gloating over his triumphal entry into the Cheyenne camp. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw strips of muslin draped beneath the rafters above her, heavy with clods and stones the rains had washed loose. They were in a sod shack, she realized. Somewhere on the plains of Kansas. Charity hoped that bacon didn’t burn while the men argued, because its tantalizing smell was making her hungrier than she’d ever been in her life.

  “And had I come galloping in, they’d have fired on me,” Blue replied matter-of-factly. “As it was, they thought I was some sort of god, and I got you out of there while the element of surprise was ours. We’ll be damned lucky if Soaring Eagle and his cohorts didn’t follow us here.”

  Cringing at the warrior’s name, Charity turned her head to watch Jackson Blue tuck the end of the bandage into the white wrapping around Dillon’s bare torso. Her husband had nasty bruises on his shoulders and back, but his protests told her that he was otherwise all right. Papa leaned against the open doorway, fidgeting with the barrel of the rifle that paralleled his leg.

  “What made you change your mind about helping me?” Dillon asked. He gritted his teeth against the pain as he gingerly checked the bandage around his midsection.

  The dark Indian shrugged. “I’ve got my reasons.” He rose to tend the skillet that was crackling in the fireplace, as though the subject was now closed.

  But Charity, too, wondered about the boastful scout’s motives. “Why did you rescue us?” she asked in a dry, croaking voice. “As often as you’ve told us to go home, I’d think you’d be glad to get rid of us.”

  Three heads swiveled at once, and Papa rushed toward her bed. “Charity, you’re awake!”

  “How do you feel, sweetheart?” Dillon asked. He limped across the small room, gazing at the precious, reddened face that was half covered with a wet rag. She’d been following their conversation—she remembered where she’d been and knew who was with her now!

  Jackson Blue lifted the cloth from her forehead. “Hair of Flame return from netherworld,” he teased, his touch surprisingly tender as he checked her face for fever. “Don’t talk until you’ve had some water. You’re badly dehydrated.”

  Charity eyed his tin cup warily. “What’s in it besides water? I’ve had enough Indian trickery, thank you.”

  Blue laughed, his ebony eyes hinting at admiration. “Shall we let Devereau sample it first? He’ll be praying for pain killer soon enough, after the fall he took.”

  “Give me that,” Dillon muttered. He gently slid an arm beneath Charity’s shoulders, watching her sip as though every swallow of the water refreshed him as well. “When I realized you were out of your head, I was afraid you’d never remember who I was, or—”

  “I saw your horse rear up, and wondered why on earth you were running straight at a pole.” Charity gripped the cup, letting her fingers fill in the gaps between Dillon’s long, slender ones. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
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  They shared an intense silence, each experiencing the other’s agony and vowing to erase it as only lovers knew how. For Charity, it was enough that they were together again. Dillon wondered if she recalled the words he whispered before he galloped off toward certain defeat, but this was no time to ask her.

  Noah cleared his throat. “Well, that bacon certainly is calling me to the table.”

  “You preachers hear any call that promises a profit,” the scout beside him scoffed. “These newlyweds are ruining my appetite. Let’s put on the plates.”

  Chuckling, Dillon eased himself cautiously down to the edge of the mattress. “Some things never change,” he murmured, assisting her as she took another sip. He glanced briefly at the sacklike buckskin dress, which accentuated her bones and hollows, and then looked into her shining green eyes. “Can you sit at the table, honey, or shall I bring your dinner over here?”

  “I’ll try to make it. Thank you.” Charity sat up slowly, adjusting to this position while she looked around the small soddie and then at her dirty dress. “I don’t suppose there’s any way I could take a bath,” she said as she wrinkled her nose.

  Dillon grinned provocatively. “There’s a stream running out back. It should be wonderfully cool, and we could do more than bathe, if you’d like.”

  Charity glanced at the two men beside the fireplace and then looked into her husband’s glowing eyes. “But your bandage shouldn’t get wet, and—”

  “To hell with it,” he whispered as he nuzzled her cheek. “Your arms will be all the medicine I need.”

  “—they’ll see us—”

  “I doubt they’ll have enough gall to watch. They’re embarrassed even now.” He looked behind him, to where Scott and Blue were making awkward small talk despite their previous animosities. His heart pounding within his chest, Devereau pulled Charity as close as his bruises would allow and kissed her fervently on the mouth.

  She answered the invitation of his tongue, savoring the sweetness of an embrace she once thought she’d never share again. His lips taunted her; Charity felt fully alive for the first time in days, and her heart swelled with the knowledge that he’d saved her life. “Dillon, I—”

  “By the time you two patients get to the table, the food will be on,” Jackson’s voice interrupted.

  Dillon sighed. “That’s our cue to behave ourselves—for now. Everything’s going to be fine, Charity. We can stay until we’re both recovered enough to travel, thanks to Blue’s hospitality.”

  She glanced at the tall Indian, who looked odd performing such a wifely task as carrying a pan of mush to the table. “This is your house, Jackson?”

  “I borrow it occasionally,” he replied. “The original homesteaders were killed in a tornado, and

  since I gave them a decent burial, I’ve taken the liberty of stashing some supplies in their root cellar.”

  She nodded and rose slowly to her feet, spurred on by the heaping platter of bacon and the fragrant steam rising from the mush. Papa was holding a chair, and after Dillon helped her take a few awkward steps, she landed in it. Her plate was chipped, and the enamel coffeepot their host was pouring from had only half its lid, but Charity didn’t care. She was eating civilized food again with the people she loved.

  After Papa offered up grace, Charity looked at Jackson Blue until he focused his midnight eyes on her. “We have our differences,” she began hesitantly, “but Papa and Dillon and I are truly grateful for your help, Mr. Blue.”

  The scout seemed surprised, and he busied himself with ladling mush onto their plates. “You’re quite welcome, Mrs. Devereau,” he said with the slightest hint of a smile. “Some of my motives were purely personal. If your husband thinks about it, he’ll realize why I chose to prevent a crisis on Chief Dull Knife’s reservation.”

  Dillon’s brow puckered while he passed her the bacon platter. “You’ve always said conditions deteriorate every time the government gets involved with Indian affairs,” he answered. “Perhaps you wanted to do your people a favor—spirit us away yourself, rather than calling in the Army—and meanwhile come out the hero.”

  Their host let out a short laugh. “I don’t consider the Cheyenne my people. But they’re my mother’s people, and she’s refused my support. Seems to feel she deserves winters of starvation and miserable, hot summers away from the lands farther north, which once belonged to the tribe.”

  As she listened to Jackson Blue, Charity saw another side to the normally hostile redskin and respected his concern for his mother. “The women there were little more than slaves,” she commented quietly.

  “Yes, and because she fell from grace, my mother attracts more than her share of abuse—from men and women alike. Perhaps you saw her. Broken Willow, they call her.”

  Charity’s eyes widened at the memory of the wrinkled woman who spat in her face. She nodded, taking a bite of mush rather than expounding about his mother’s rudeness.

  “You see, she married a Negro, who abandoned her for the call of California the day I was born,” Blue continued. “She had no choice but to return to the Cheyenne. They scorned her and made my childhood pure hell, despite my inability to change my pedigree ... or my color.”

  Jackson’s dusky face registered deep emotion, as though the resentment of bygone years still stung him. “Indian children acquire new names as they accomplish deeds that display prowess and maturity. While other boys were called Flying Arrow and Little Wolf, my name remained Turtle . . . Droppings. I was barred from the rites of manhood and forced into the role of berdache.”

  Charity felt a horrified sympathy for the man seated across from her. Sensing he didn’t want to define the Indian insult, she glanced at Dillon and resumed eating.

  Her husband cleared his throat, wondering how to explain the term without offending Charity or her father, who looked equally appalled by Blue’s life story. “A berdache,” he began quietly, “lives his life as a woman. Prepares the meat brought home from the hunt rather than going with the other men to kill it, for instance.”

  Charity’s eye’s grew wide. How could anyone question Jackson Blue’s maleness, unless . . . Her cheeks burned with embarrassment and ignorance of such matters.

  “I’m a man in every way, Charity—make no mistake,” the scout replied. “I was the first of my peers to drop a buffalo unassisted, a boy who sneaked girls into the trees to explore their . . . peaks and valleys. You can imagine my anger when those girls’ fathers forced me to wear a dress and called me queer to my face. That’s why I left the Northern Cheyenne and abandoned my mother, when she refused to come along.”

  “And you became a buffalo hunter, to get revenge by killing the Indian’s food?” she asked quietly.

  Blue chuckled. “So I thought. But it took more than one man to massacre those awesome herds.” He tapped her plate with his fork. “Better eat, Hair of Flame. Golden Peacock grows anxious for the attentions of his woman.”

  “Golden Peacock?” Charity snickered, and then she was giggling so hard she couldn’t stop. The mush slid from her spoon down the front of the buckskin dress, which only made her—and everyone except Dillon—laugh harder.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked with mock resentment. “A peacock is a stately bird—”

  “Who struts around impressing the women with his plumage,” Noah finished, nearly choking on his laughter. “It’s the perfect name for you, Devereau. No offense intended, you understand.”

  “Of course not.” Dillon glanced from his father-in-law to Blue, who seemed to be in a much lighter mood now. “I’d be interested in hearing Jackson’s Indian name for you, Reverend.”

  “Me?” Scott dabbed moisture from his eye, still chuckling. “How could anyone possibly ridicule me?”

  The shack grew silent while Jackson, Charity, and Devereau considered answers to that question, each of them wearing a secretive grin.

  Scott laid his utensils down with an indignant sniff. “You young people are impossibly rude,” he said, but Ch
arity could tell her father secretly enjoyed being the object of their mischief. The rest of the meal passed pleasantly—a miracle, considering all they’d endured these past several days.

  It was then that the reason for their journey came back to her, and the thought of how Mama’s misadventures with Erroll Powers had complicated so many lives made Charity feel suddenly tired again. “I... I’d like to bathe and change out of this awful dress,” she said quietly.

  Devereau rose to help with her chair, but it was Jackson who spoke. “Weak as you are, the undertow will drag you down, young lady. I’ll heat you some water—

  “Dillon’s going with me,” Charity stated, knowing her husband had more than her personal hygiene in mind.

  The Indian’s lips twitched. “Devereau’s in no better shape than you are. I’m going along, to keep you both from drowning.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of watching out for my wife,” Dillon insisted. “Get your dress and soap from your suitcase, sweetheart.”

  But Blue was already at the door, gun in hand, wearing his usual arrogant grin. “I couldn’t in good conscience let my friends bathe unprotected, while heathen savages are undoubtedly waiting for the chance to attack them. Scott, if you’d be so kind as to clean up . . .” He stooped, and was out the soddie’s doorway.

  Charity looked helplessly at her father, who waved her on. “You two attend to your bathing. I suppose cleaning up is the least I can do.”

  Nodding, she preceded Dillon outside. The sun hovered on the horizon, basking in its own red-orange splendor, and the only sound was the chirrip chirrip of locusts in the distance. Charity could see the stream now, a ribbon of glistening water bounded by the only tall green grass in sight. It wound around a slight rise in the earth, and Jackson had already stationed himself at this vantage point. He chuckled at her hesitant expression.

  “Never fear, Mrs. Devereau. Your husband and I have shared plenty of whiskey and women in our day, but your emaciated condition will keep my back turned tonight.”