Gambler's Tempting Kisses

by Charlotte Hubbard

  He couldn’t ever recall being so disgusted with a woman, and he reached up to take her by the shoulders and march her out of this steamy corner. But Marcella grabbed his wrists, planting her feet so he couldn’t budge her.

  “What elegant hands you have,” she whispered, “so supple and strong, they surely know how to pleasure a woman beyond mere ecstasy. Charity can’t possibly appreciate such a caress,” she went on, her voice becoming steely. “And she’ll wish she stayed home—you’ll regret not minding your own business—”

  Before Dillon knew what was happening, she jerked him around and pressed his palms flat against the pot of boiling soup. He saw a white-hot flash of pain and cried out, curling his ravaged hands against his vest as Marcella Scott strode away, chuckling.

  From her window, Charity watched the tiny engine puff up another incline in the distance. The hills of California were a lush green, dotted with bright flowers she’d never seen. She’d have to ask Dillon about them at dinner.

  But where was he? She had no way of telling the time, but a painful rolling of her stomach convinced her to walk to the dining car. Some of the other passengers had probably detained him, asking for an account of their treacherous swim.

  Charity was on the platform outside the parlor car when the train lurched, sending a shock wave rippling through the entire line of cars. Shaken, she hurried inside before the next vibration could knock her off her feet.

  Through the window, Charity saw that the engine had topped the ridge; the flatcars were still moving very slowly, as was the back half of the train. She squinted, thinking she saw a movement on the side or one of the cars.

  “What on God’s earth ...” She watched the door of the car slide sideways, and then saw a black horse leap gracefully to the ground, bearing a skirted rider. A black-haired man in buckskins followed them, rolling when he hit the grass, and then he swung himself onto the horse behind the woman.

  Charity’s heart stopped. The stunt itself seemed incredible, even considering the snail’s pace of the train, but how long had Mama and Jackson Blue been aboard? It had to be them, riding Satan, and yet—

  She let all her breath out at once, struck by a premonition of doom. It wasn’t so much their presence as their timing that worried her: why would the two conspirators jump off out here in the foothills, unless they knew something horrible was about to happen?

  As though on cue, the whole line of cars shuddered again, sending a roll of thunder along the rails. The train was picking up speed, and now Charity heard men shouting above her, their footfalls clattering along the roof. The brakemen! Their words were unclear, but the panic in their voices was unmistakable.

  Charity rushed through the next car and the next, and by the time she entered the dining car, her alarm increased. Beautifully dressed diners sat at the white tables, eating courses that smelled heavenly, but they shrieked when the wine sloshed out of their goblets. George Hollister bustled through the opposite door, his face taut.

  “You folks hang on now!” he instructed. “The brakemen’re doin’ their best, but we’ve got ourselves a runaway train!”

  Charity looked desperately for Dillon, but then the dining car was jolted again and she dove for a safe spot beside a heavy buffet. Vases of flowers were tumbling off the tables, as were the candles, and people stumbled into each other as they scurried to snuff the flames. Food was flying everywhere, because they were now traveling at the dizzying speed of a carnival ride gone crazy.

  Charity clutched at the buffet, wondering if Mama and Jackson Blue had tampered with the brakes. It seemed such an elaborate, dangerous scheme, just to get back at her and Dillon, yet—

  When a swoop into a valley sent plates and goblets shattering around her, the car rang with frightened shrieks. Charity closed her eyes, praying that if the train jumped the tracks and the cars went careening down the hills, human life would be spared.

  After what felt like hours, she relaxed her grip on the buffet. They seemed to be slowing down. When she opened her eyes, other passengers were peering out from under tables, murmuring about whether it was safe to come out yet. Charity watched husbands and wives cling to each other, and she longed for the security of Dillon’s arms. Cautiously she stood up, steadying herself against the buffet. “Has anyone seen my husband—Mr. Devereau?” she asked above the whisperings.

  The passengers smiled in recognition, but they shook their heads.

  The train was traveling swiftly along, but Charity sensed the engineer had regained control of it. She peeked into the kitchen, where white-aproned cooks were mopping up soup and putting empty pots and utensils in place again. There was no sign of Dillon.

  She walked carefully to the next car, gripping the door handles as she crossed the platform, and then she stopped to stare. George Hollister knelt in front of her husband, who was seated by one of the large observation windows. Dillon’s head rested against the wall; his face was dead white, and he wore a grimace of pain that sent fear racing through Charity’s veins.

  She rushed to the porter’s side. “What happened, Mr. Hollister? I tried to find—”

  “He’ll be hurtin’ bad till the doctor in Sacramento can see him. Goose grease is the best I can do.”

  When the colored porter looked gravely up at her, Charity realized he’d been wrapping her husband’s hands—both of them! Along with the physical torture he was suffering, Dillon was already grappling with the professional implications of such an injury.

  Her insides shriveled as she slid onto the seat beside him. “How did this happen?” she whispered. “When you didn’t come for me, I thought you were just talking to people.”

  Dillon blinked rapidly and exchanged a glance with Hollister she couldn’t read. The Negro cleared his throat, picking up his canister of grease. “Your man’s hands have been severely burned, Miz Devereau,” he said quietly. “It was a kitchen accident, right before the train went out of control. I’ll bring some dinner to your car just as soon as I can get there, ma’am.”

  Kitchen accident? Charity swallowed a lump of confusion that threatened to make her cry. “Shall we go, Dillon? I—I think the train’s slowed down to a safe speed now.”

  Devereau clenched his teeth against the hellish fire that seared his palms. His wife was acting brave and efficient to keep from bursting into tears, so he nodded and stood up slowly. “Lead the way,” he rasped.

  Charity was only too glad to walk in front of him, because she couldn’t look at the mummified fingers sticking out from the sleeves of his brown coat. She held doors and cleared the clutter from his path in the dining car, fearfully aware that he couldn’t grab on to anything if the train jolted him. But they made it to their car without incident, the object of hushed, anxious comments from people they passed. Dillon dropped into a chair as though he’d never have the strength to get out of it again.

  “Is there something I can do? Anything I can get you?” she asked him.

  He shook his head and stared out the window.

  Several minutes passed, an awful time when Charity’s questions threatened to spill out, yet she feared his answers and didn’t want to aggravate his horrendous pain. The look she’d seen pass between Dillon and Hollister haunted her, though, and her husband’s pointed silence finally drove her to desperation. “How did this happen? What on earth were you doing in the kitchen?” she asked in a choked voice.

  He remained motionless, his bandaged hands lying palms-up in his lap. When at last he spoke, it was in a lifeless monotone. “I met up with Marcella. I refused to help her find Powers. She held my hands against a boiling stock pot.”

  Charity felt the blood rush from her head. Mama had struck again, wounding Dillon in a manner more odious than any man would have contrived. Were she and Blue sneaking off the train to escape punishment for this crime? What part had her husband’s closest friend played in this devastating drama? She sank into the nearest chair, more confused than ever. All she could think about was coming into a strange city
where her husband couldn’t mount a horse or drive a wagon, or even feed himself.

  And Dr. LaMont in Sacramento delivered yet another blow. “These are serious burns, Mr. Devereau. They’ll require at least a month of diligent treatment before the skin can replace itself and heal.” He handed Charity a bottle of ointment and a box of rolled bandages, adding, “You’ll need to change his dressing every day, ma’am. And at the first sign of gangrene, you call a doctor.”

  Charity nodded numbly. “H-how will I know?”

  Dr. LaMont glanced at Dillon, who seemed miles away, and lowered his voice. “He’ll smell like he’s already dead.”

  It was a gruesome, tactless statement and it startled her out of her misery. Charity checked them into a hotel, and got them onto a train bound for San Francisco the next morning, painfully aware that her husband was unable to sign the register or buy their tickets or carry their luggage—tasks a man with hands took for granted. He was understandably quiet during the entire ride.

  During his silence, Charity drew upon her inner resources. Once the ointment eased his pain, Dillon would rally; his vendetta against Erroll Powers would be his incentive to get well. This recuperation period offered the perfect chance to become better acquainted with the man behind the gambler’s mask: while remaining his wife and lover, she would now become his nurse and helpmate, a companion and a friend. It was her chance to repay him for rescuing her from the Cheyenne camp and the river, a time God had given her to honor the sacred promise “in sickness and in health.”

  It was the ultimate mission of mercy, and when she took Dillon’s elbow at the San Francisco station, Charity felt serenely confident that she would have him healed and ready to challenge Erroll Powers in record time.

  Chapter 25

  The cottage on Winthrop Street was everything the newspaper advertisement promised: cozy, tastefully furnished, close to shops and markets. But when the landlord quoted Charity a price, she paled. “Goodness, Mr. Overby. Where I come from, you could rent the governor’s mansion for that.”

  Overby chortled, smoothing his dark fringe of hair. “You’ll find no place prettier for this price. And where you come from, there’s no view of San Francisco Bay.”

  Charity had to agree. The little house sat high enough on a hill to afford a magnificent view of barges and boats and piers, which extended like fingers into the expanse of sparkling water. It was comfortable and private, the perfect place for Dillon to recover. “All right then,” she said as she handed him enough for the first month. “We’re lucky to find such a place our first day in town— aren’t we, Dillon?”

  Her husband kept on staring out the parlor window.

  Charity gave Mr. Overby an apologetic smile. “He’s in terrible pain. I’m sure he’ll feel more sociable when his medication starts to work.”

  Nodding, the landlord studied Dillon’s back. “And what’d you say your name was, sir?”

  When he remained silent, Charity replied, “We’re the Devereaus, Dillon and Charity. Thank you again for your time.”

  “Used to know some folks named Devereau,” Overby commented. “Had a gambling establishment in town, they did. But that’s surely a coincidence, after all these years.”

  “Yes, it is,” Dillon snapped. “Now if you don’t mind, we’d like to unpack.”

  Fuming, Charity watched the landlord amble to the street. She had found the house, she had hired the carriage, and this was the thanks she got! “What is your problem?” she demanded. “Mr. Overby was trying to be friendly, and you practically bit his head off. It’s a wonder he let us have the place.”

  Devereau scowled at her. “He suckered you into paying a ridiculous amount. For a view.”

  “No more ridiculous than what you left me in Dodge,” she countered. “If it were left up to you, we’d still be sitting at the station sulking. Someone had to find us lodgings, Dillon.”

  His amber eyes flashed and he muttered something as he faced the window again. Charity almost challenged him to repeat it, but she caught herself: he was exhausted and hurting, still upset because Mama had injured him so seriously. He’d resume his affectionate ways when she nursed him back to better health. Anyone who’d lost the use of his hands would be testy, she reasoned.

  But two days later Dillon revealed the real reason for his cruel moods. Charity was dressing his wounds, an awkward task that brought her as much pain as it did her husband, when he jerked his hand away so violently the bottle of ointment flew across the parlor.

  “Dammit, woman, you don’t dig at those blisters!” he cried out. “I swear to God you studied medicine under your mother!”

  Charity blanched. “But Dr. LaMont said—”

  “LaMont couldn’t have cared less. Didn’t bother showing you the proper way to dress my wounds.”

  “I’m doing the best I can,” she answered in a quavery voice. “If I don’t clean the skin thoroughly, you’ll develop gangrene.”

  “So what? Even if my hands heal, I’ve lost my feel for the cards and I’ll never be able to bankrupt Powers. Can’t you see that, Charity?” he demanded bitterly. “Might as well amputate the damn things right now.”

  Devereau waved his raw, oozing palms in front of her, his face contorted with anguish. His hair needed trimming, and three days’ growth of beard added to the wildness of eyes that flashed like a wounded animal’s. He’d already lost all resemblance to the genteel gambler she’d fallen in love with. “What do you want me to do?” she mumbled.

  He hated the monster he’d become. His wife deserved none of the abuse he’d heaped upon her since Marcella had incapacitated him. But this helplessness ate away at him—the humiliation, of having to be fed and dressed and wiped, for Chrissakes! Dillon wished with all his heart she’d stayed in Dodge, because the bright promises he made her aboard the train haunted him day and night.

  Charity sat before him, her crestfallen eyes rimmed with red. When he considered the caretaker’s role she was now condemned to, there was only one humane answer to her question. “Take your money, ride back to Dodge, and sign those divorce papers,” he replied quietly. “Playing nursemaid to a man who’s cashed in his chips is no life for a fine woman like you, Charity.”

  Her heart pounded in a rapid-fire staccato. “But Dillon, you’ll heal! In a few weeks—”

  “Powers will have skipped the country by then,” he retorted. “The Kansas Pacific has detectives on his trail. He can’t possibly remain anonymous, the way he loves to flash his money.”

  “So forget about him! It’s only a card game!”

  Charity blurted. “You still have the Crystal Queen—you still have me, Dillon! You’ll lead a fulfilling, busy life among your friends, whether or not you gamble.”

  It was her definition of “fulfilling” that missed the mark, but Charity couldn’t be expected to understand how deeply the risks and challenges of high-stakes gambling were ingrained in his soul. Before she came along, it was all he had to live for. “I want you to bandage my hands,” he muttered, “and then you’re packing your suitcase. Go home, Charity. I’ve nothing left to offer you.”

  He might as well have kicked her down the front stairs. With tear-filled eyes she retrieved the ointment and made a clumsy job of wrapping his hands. “H-how will you take care of yourself?”

  “I’ll hire someone. Whoever has to put up with me deserves to be paid.”

  Charity turned away, choking on her naive dreams of becoming closer to him, his helpmate and friend. “So pay me,” she offered. “You’ll see things more clearly when you feel like yourself again.”

  “But I’ll never be myself again! My life is over, Charity,” he snapped. “Marcella has probably found Powers and told him I’m here, maimed and helpless. They’ll show up to finish me off someday, like maggots in dead meat, and I won’t make you their target again. I’ll not subject you to being my servant—or my whore—either. So go home.”

  Tears were streaming down her face. “I thought a man of honor didn’t
turn tail on his woman,” she said desperately. “And a gentleman wouldn’t renege on our deal.”

  “Goddammit, I’m not a gentleman!” he hollered, “I’m a useless sonuvabitch who’ll have to wear gloves for the rest of his life! I’m sick of not being able to drop my own damn drawers, so leave! Our deal’s off.”

  Charity shuffled out of the parlor, caught between obeying her husband and defying the self-pitying martyr he’d become. Once again he’d abandoned her without leaving her any options, because neither staying with him nor returning to Missouri without him seemed possible.

  Had his pain affected his reasoning? His distasteful allusion to Mama, Powers, and maggots sounded farfetched . . . yet even if Mama didn’t ally herself with Erroll again, she had Jackson Blue with her—a dangerous situation, because Dillon didn’t know about his best friend’s betrayal. Only a heartless bitch would abandon Devereau to the three wolves who might be prowling the city now, lying in wait for him.

  Yet he’d made himself clear. He was a proud, handsome man whose vanity and pain were stronger than his love for her. It hadn’t occurred to him that his hands would return to normal, and that her love for him would remain strong no matter what he looked like.

  Charity collapsed on the bed—a bed Dillon didn’t share; a bed where she’d lain awake, aching to hold him. There was more to marriage than physical bliss, yet living without his lovemaking was every bit as painful as watching Devereau defeat himself. He’d spoiled her with his affections: she could never take another husband, because all others would fall short when she compared them to Dillon.

  Not knowing what else to do, she packed her few belongings. On an impulse, she took the colorful folds of fabric from Dillon’s trunk—what use would Devereau have for these exquisite silks? She tried to arrange her hair, but the wretched face in the mirror made the effort seem wasted.

  Charity paused at the door to the parlor. Devereau’s back was to her, and his shoulders sagged. He was staring out the window as though searching the Bay for the meaning of a life gone wrong.