Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  Devereau groaned, his heart thundering in his throat. “Maybe I should have told the missus you weren’t on this train,” George’s voice floated down after him, but he was too damn scared to respond. The San Francisco streets he played on as a boy were molehills compared to the sharp grade he was negotiating now. His foot struck a rock and he skittered wildly toward the pillar Charity had just left. By God, woman, when I get you back on the train I’ll—

  But Dillon’s opinions of her harebrained idea were the furthest thing from Charity’s mind. The rough surface she’d been slip-sliding on was turning into treacherously smooth rock that ran perpendicular to the river, a hazard she hadn’t foreseen from the train tracks. Caught between climbing back to be carried across the bridge and plunging off the sheer canyon walls, Charity paused at a pillar to check on Dillon’s progress.

  When Devereau saw her foot slip and then witnessed the terror on her face, his life passed before him. All thought of chastising her fled; instinct took over where rational thought left off. Her filmy lingerie was billowing around her slender limbs as she fell out from the canyon wall, a stick figure against the flowing river below. When she disappeared with a tiny splash, he was leaping away from the rocky cliff, praying he would surface close enough to grab hold of her . . . praying he would surface.

  Charity hit the icy-cold river and gasped, choking on the water that rushed down her throat. Deeper and deeper she plunged, swirling in a silent world that carried her along as though she were a speck of flotsam. When she felt herself rising, she forced her eyes open and began to scissor-kick through the churning water. Her strength was ebbing—she shuddered with the urge to cough and breathe—yet somehow her hands kept reaching for the surface, which eluded her with every faltering stroke. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. . .

  Devereau surged upward through the freezing water, cursing at the drag his underwear and shoes caused. When his head broke the surface, he gazed desperately around. There she was, approaching a support pillar. He wanted to call out to her, but the water was so damn cold his lungs felt paralyzed. If she didn’t grab on to that trestle, she’d drift beyond it, and every fiber in his body was screaming that he’d never be able to tow her against the current, back to the safety of the wooden post. Her head went under—

  She shook herself and reached for Dillon, her body vibrating with a burst of life—he was here! But he was cold and hard and unyielding ... it was a trestle post. Charity let herself relax against it, regurgitating water and the sandwich and . . . and she was losing her grip.

  Devereau yanked her up by her camisole and grabbed on to the trestle with his other arm. His head was spinning—he’d never been an athlete—and he had no idea what the hell they’d do now, with the river holding them hostage between the canyon walls. He couldn’t bear to think about the climb ahead of them. It was all he could do to hang on and catch his breath.

  Charity was wondering if God had transformed the trestle pole into an angel who was holding her, alive, gentle, wheezing . . . . When she opened her eyes, she saw that Dillon’s hair was plastered to his head and his face was ghostly white and water ran in rivulets from his drippy, droopy mustache. He resembled a half-drowned dog. All because she wasn’t sensible enough to walk across a bridge.

  It was no time to snivel an apology, so Charity put on the most disarming smile she could manage.

  “Didn’t I tell you it would work?” she croaked cheerfully. “Why, between our fine diving and the help from the current, we’re nearly to the other side.”

  Both arms were busy or he would have throttled her. Dillon couldn’t believe that the lumpy-haired, pale-faced woman who’d wrapped her legs around him was actually laughing. Not two minutes ago she’d been going under, all but dead.

  And as her melodious giggle tickled his ear, Devereau realized she was doing this for his benefit. Their situation was absurd—and they were only one set of pillars away from safety—and he found himself laughing in spite of his labored breathing. “Charity, you have the most warped sense of humor I ever—when we get back on that train, I’m going to—”

  “Don’t say it, Dillon. Don’t even think it,” she mimicked. “Save your creativity for that canyon wall, because damned if I know how we’ll get up it.”

  “Fine time to admit that.” He held her shivering body against him while they assessed the remaining distance to shore. “We should be getting over there. The train won’t wait forever.”

  They took a deep breath and shoved off, swimming within an arm’s length, certain they couldn’t scale the wall that loomed before them. Clambering up out of the water depleted most of their remaining energy, but neither dared admit defeat after coming this far. The breeze was chilling, and Charity tried to forget about how her soaked under-things were clinging to her cold skin. She forced herself to find footholds in the steep cliff, praying she and her husband could keep challenging each other up to the top.

  Devereau glanced at her goosebumpy backside and knew she’d never make it. From some unknown reservoir of strength he found the power to pull ahead of her. “Watch where I step,” he gasped, “and follow me.”

  From then on he couldn’t look back. He could only listen to her faint wheezing and imagine her agonized expression. Dillon dared himself to gaze higher and took heart: ahead were rocks and roots to grab on to, if they could make it that far. He could still hear his wife struggling close behind him. Charity had more grit than any other woman he knew, and she’d need every ounce of it.

  From above them came the strident whistle of the train.

  “Jesus God,” he muttered, but when he tried to scramble faster, he nearly lost his grip on the rock. And then, as if he hadn’t suffered enough, a snake came wriggling down the cliff. There was no time to warn Charity—no place to move without—

  “Grab on to that rope, Mr. Dillon,” a voice drifted into the canyon. “We’re all pullin’ for you, sir.”

  It was a miracle! Charity struggled up the rock wall on sheer willpower, until she was in the crook of Dillon’s arm and he was encircling them with the rope. One steady pull after another raised them up, and they let their feet bounce against the cliff to keep from smashing into it. Then they were trotting doggedly onto the shrub-studded hillocks just beneath the bridge.

  She could hear excited chatter as they stumbled up over the last ridge, propelling each other forward. There was a cheer and loud applause, along with the train whistle, and George Washington Hollister was rushing toward them. “Miz Devereau, let’s wrap you in this coat and—here, sir, I’ll pull that rope off you. God Almighty, we thought you were goners!”

  Devereau had no strength to respond. He was gasping for air, his entire body was quaking, and his palms smarted from the most grueling physical exertion he’d endured in his entire life. Men were slapping him on the back while their women watched, wide-eyed. He saw the Negro catch Charity up and carry her, all the while urging the crowd to board the train.

  “Go on now, folks—the engineer’s got her fired up,” George exhorted above their chatter. He hurried through the caboose and swung the door to Devereau’s compartment open, catching it with his foot so Dillon could enter first.

  Charity had apparently passed out, so Devereau gestured toward the bed and fell into the nearest chair. The porter tucked his wife in with infinite tenderness, keeping the rumpled frock coat wrapped around her drenched body.

  “I’ll be back quick as the kitchen can rustle up some soup,” Hollister fretted. “Can you wiggle out of that union suit, sir, or do you need my help?”

  Devereau had nearly drifted off out of utter exhaustion, but the prospect of dry clothes and hot food made him struggle to his feet. “I’ll be fine, George. You saved our lives, and I’ll certainly tell your supervisor about your exemplary service.”

  The porter beamed. “Why, thank you, sir. I— well, I couldn’t just leave you hangin’ there, could I?

  He watched the burly colored man reach for the door and then
thought of something else. “Hollister?”

  “Yessir, Mr. Dillon?”

  Devereau let out a bone-weary sigh. “Next time you let a woman into my private car against my orders, I’ll see that you’re fired. On the spot.”

  “Yessir, Mr. Dillon.”

  Chapter 24

  Charity was barely aware that they changed trains in Ogden, and she dozed fitfully across Nevada. During her moments of wakefulness, every glance at Dillon sent a dagger of remorse through her heart. Her foolish fears had almost cost them their lives—how stupid, to assume she could swim the Weber River! Only the grace of God and the efforts of George Hollister had saved them, and she wondered if her husband would be as compassionate. He had good reason to want her out of his life now.

  She pretended to be asleep as he asked the porter for bath water. How ironic, if she were to drown in the tub after surviving the river. Devereau would act appalled enough—“she. was so exhausted she must’ve slipped under the water while I was shaving!” he could claim. It would be a quick solution to his problem.

  From beneath her trembling lashes, Charity saw Mr. Hollister fill the tub with hot water. Her body ached for a steamy soak! But when the colored porter left and Dillon approached the bed, Charity wondered if she were watching her executioner draw near.

  He sat down beside her and stroked her hair; a nice touch, but she wasn’t fooled. “Hollister’s brought us some bath water and a menu, sweetheart,” he said when she finally looked at him. “I thought you’d enjoy eating in the dining car once before we arrived in California.”

  As usual, his smile and voice revealed none of his true emotion. “I couldn’t eat a thing,” she mumbled. “Don’t let me keep you from a nice meal, though.”

  Devereau held a palm to her forehead. Normal. And she hadn’t eaten since Hollister rescued them. “You’ll be hungry once you’re up and around,” he said gently. Then he gave her a teasing grin. “The tub’s too small to share, but I know ways to make your bath an ... unforgettable experience.”

  I’m sure you do, Charity fretted. The steam rising from the copper tub taunted her, and the silence was interrupted by a loud, long rumbling of her stomach. “I ... why don’t you go first, while I finish waking up?”

  Had the playful, amorous woman he married been washed away by the river? She was cowering beneath the coverlet, trembling visibly. “Are you afraid of water now, sweetheart? You know I’ll—”

  “No! I—I just—”

  “Do you feel sick at your stomach?” He reached for the parchment menu and began reading it. “Boiled California salmon . . . stuffed, roasted quail . . . sweet potato pie . . . coconut pudding with wine sauce . . . Catawba grapes . . . Surely something sounds good to you.”

  Sounds good? She was ready to eat the damn menu! He wasn’t going to give up, so she had to appease Dillon without falling prey to him. Any man who carried three weapons in his game box had to be watched. “Perhaps I’ll soak a bit,” she mumbled. “And I can bathe myself.”

  For Charity to refuse food was one thing, but when she avoided his touch, Devereau knew something was seriously wrong. Her eyes were too wide, and she was holding her breath without realizing it. “Are you going to tell me why you’re suddenly scared to death of me, wife? Or do I have to review my wicked inclinations and figure it out for myself?” he asked softly. “Seems a strange way to treat me, after I followed you into the river without once criticizing your fear of that trestle.”

  Why did he have to sound like such a damn martyr? And how did he know she felt so terrible about turning him away? Suddenly she was crying, shaking with guilt and fright. “You—you must hate me for what I put you through,” she blubbered, and for several moments she couldn’t say any more. The words were too painful to think, much less express to the golden-haired man seated beside her. “I ... I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you, Dillon. I can see why you’d want to be rid of me.”

  Her nervous glance toward the tub told him the rest of the story, and Devereau was stunned. “Honey, if I wanted to drown you, I had the perfect chance in the river,” he said in a choked voice. “But had I lost you, Charity, my own life wouldn’t be worth living.”

  She sniffled loudly. “Y-you mean that?”

  “With all my heart.” He lifted her chin, waiting for her to look at him. “Ducking out on you in Dodge was the most shameful thing I’ve ever done. A man of honor wouldn’t have turned tail on his woman, no matter how noble his intentions. Can you forgive me?”

  He hadn’t said he loved her outright, but his earnest expression spoke volumes. Charity drew a shuddery breath, relieved that her fantasy about being drowned was just another foolish idea. “I can forgive you that, if you can pardon my tendency to jump into the jaws of death.”

  “Consider it done,” he murmured with a chuckle. “And you were right. Our adventure in the river will make a helluva story to tell our children.”

  As Dillon lifted her out of bed, she felt as though she were floating toward heaven. He not only wanted her, he wanted children! His words painted cozy images in her mind, images of fireside evenings and picnics and a proud blond father with a child riding his shoulders. It was a picture of the permanence and love she longed for, and Charity was so engrossed in the details of her daydream she didn’t notice that he’d removed her nightgown until he was lowering her into the tub.

  She watched, entranced, while Dillon found her lilac soap and rolled up his shirtsleeves with a knowing smile. How had she attracted such a handsome husband, a man who humored her whims and respected her opinions? His eyes glowed with an amber lovelight as he slowly lathered every inch of her body. His hands cast a languid spell with each wet caress, and when her head fell back against the rim of the tub, Dillon kissed her hungrily. The sweet insistence of his lips made her quiver with wanting him; he slipped his fingers between her legs, and his artful massage made Charity grip the edge of the tub, bucking and gasping, heedless of the water that sloshed out around her.

  Her grimace of ecstasy was satisfaction enough—for now. Devereau let her relax, drinking in the loveliness of her sated smile. “While you’re soaking, I’ll shave,” he said softly, “and we’ll dress in our best clothes for the elegant sort of dinner I intend to treat you to every night we’re in San Francisco.”

  Charity chuckled, still woozy from his attentions. “You’ll get awfully tired of Voletta’s ivory dress.”

  “We’ll have your yard goods from Abilene made up first thing, and I’ll order you a closetful of colorful gowns,” he promised with a jaunty smile. “They’ll be the perfect incentive for me to bankrupt Powers quickly, so we can get on with our life together.”

  Had he forgotten about renegotiating their deal? His loving looks as he shaved were too precious to risk asking about it. His touch was dreamlike as he helped her dress and then fashioned her hair into an upsweep with her combs.

  “Sit pretty, Charity,” he murmured as he donned a tobacco-brown frock coat. “I’ll reserve us a table and a bottle of champagne, and I’ll be right back.”

  Charity threw her arms around him and shared a kiss that held promises of everlasting passion. As he stepped out the door, she sank into a chair, her fingertips on her lips, her heart beating out a love song only Dillon Devereau would ever hear.

  He stepped proudly through the parlor car, smiling at everyone who greeted him. He was a hero in their eyes, and all was right between him and his woman, and Dillon felt a solid satisfaction that financial success alone had never given him. He planned to make quick work of Erroll Powers now, because life was suddenly too damned sweet to waste his energies seeking revenge.

  Devereau entered the dining car, with its white linens and gleaming stemware, and stopped short. Marcella Scott was talking to a chef.

  Her presence on the train didn’t surprise him, but he should have been prepared for her to appear at the least opportune time. She turned, smiling as though she’d been planning this encounter since they met in Dodge Cit
y.

  “How wonderful to see you again,” she said in a husky voice. She swayed toward him in a stylish green gown—dragon green, he reminded himself. “You cut a dashing figure diving into the river,” she continued. “The picture of virility and strength, an image of sheer manhood the women aboard this train will recall for the rest of their lives. Too bad you were saving such a goose of a girl.”

  Devereau ignored the jeweled hand she offered him. “Charity’s my wife and I love her. Any husband would have done the same.”

  Marcella let out a jaded laugh. “Save your modesty for a woman who appreciates it, Mr. Devereau. I admire a man of courage and action, and I think we’d make a fine team. Why not work together to snare Erroll and then split his fortune between us? Plenty of it to go around.”

  He had to give her credit for coming straight to the point, but Dillon had no intention of continuing this conversation. Other diners were filing in around them, so he gestured toward the kitchen. “We’ll settle this now and be done with it,” he said tersely. “You’re a snake in the garden, and Powers knows it as well as I do.”

  She preceded him to a corner by a stove, waving away a cook who stirred a tall, bubbling pot of oxtail soup. “You sound like Noah,” she jeered, but as she turned to him, her face assumed the glazed sweetness of a china doll’s. “Why are we quibbling? I know his contacts’ names and you know your way around San Francisco. We’ll trap him and be sharing what’s due us in no time.”

  “I’m not in this for the money,” Devereau insisted in a low voice. “Powers robbed me of my family, when I was too young to get back at him. But I don’t suppose you understand my sentiments, having gone to such lengths to destroy your own ties.”

  The skin around her catlike eyes crinkled with mirth. “Fine! Wreak your revenge, and I’ll take his money. I’m very easy to deal with when I get my way.”