Table of Contents
The Dead Man's Hand
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Excerpt From ALEX
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About the Author
Joker Joker
The Deuces Wild Series
Book 2
IRISH WINTERS
Joker Joker; The Deuces Wild Series, Book 2
Copyright © 2017 by Irish Winters
All rights reserved
First Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, dialogues, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Cover design and author photo by Letitia Hasser, Romantic Book Designs
Interior book design by Bob Houston eBook Formatting
Editor: Linda Clarkson, Black Opal Editing and Proofreading
ISBN Paperback: 978-1-942895-49-7
ISBN eBook: 978-1-942895-50-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017949911
Irish Winter’s author websites are:
http://www.irishwinters.com and irishwinters.blogspot.com
Deuces Wild
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The Dead Man’s Hand
Old West lawman, gambler, gunslinger and showman, James “Wild Bill” Hickok, was murdered on August 2, 1876, while playing five-card draw at Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. Jack McCall, a disgruntled gambler, approached Hickok from behind and shot him at point-blank range in the back of the head, killing him instantly. McCall was later hanged for the murder, but by then, America had lost one of its premier Wild West heroes.
Legend tells us “Wild Bill” held two pair at the moment of his death, black aces and eights—the dead man’s hand. The identity of the fifth card has been the subject of conjecture for years. For the purpose of this series, I’ve chosen a deuce of hearts for that card-in-the-hole, in honor of a little boy named Devlin who loved to play the violin. In honor of a father’s undying love for his son.
Some players think wild cards are amateurish and juvenile. Others believe the more wild cards in the game, the greater their chance of winning. I only know that one Deuce and a pair makes three of a kind, and that sounds a lot like a family to me. You be the judge.
Deuces Wild.
Chapter One
I want to dance. Just once.
Winslow stood with the toes of her furry UGGs over the edge of what could be forever. It might not be one of those happily-ever-after kinds of forevers, but it would be everlasting. With her arms spread wide, she embraced this singular moment of her life. Knowing what she was about to do gave her an unfamiliar sense of control, along with a twinge of regret. It gave her the exhilaration of freedom. For once, she was in total control. Everything that happened up on this water tower was up to her.
The chilly autumn wind rippled over the downy strands on her bare head. Capriciously, it tugged at her baggy T-shirt and sweat pants, inviting her to—play. Such a universe of possibilities in a tiny word, possibilities she would never know.
Standing here like this had become a ritual of sorts for Winslow. When her health permitted, she sneaked out of her room and climbed to the top of the nearly constructed water tower, what would be the highest of its kind in Silver Spring, Maryland, when finished. Her mother might call standing on this water tower crazy. Winslow called it heaven.
Up here, she could wrap her arms around herself and cry if she wanted to. She could stare at the moon and talk to herself without being overheard, criticized, or judged. In her wildest dreams, she could pretend she was a wife. Maybe a mother. A nurturer of chubby cheeked babies with unconditional adoration in their eyes. She could entertain the possibility of a long life full of all good things—even the arms of a strong, passionate lover around her at night. Warming her with his kisses. Wanting her.
As if.
Fighting tears, she tipped a defiant chin to the gray clouds scudding overhead. Of all things, she had a date tonight. Not a real date though. The dance her control freak mother had talked her into wasn’t a real prom, either. It was a scam, another scheme that Joyce Parrish had dreamed up and bullied her only child, and the local high school, into. Yes, there’d be a band, and yes, the graduating class had eagerly put this phony dance together, but ah! The chances missed. The opportunities lost! What a treat it would have been to have actually gone to that school. To have real girlfriends, slumber parties, and, heaven forbid, a genuine boyfriend instead of a blind date.
The wind curled around her worn body like a friend, whispering enticement in her taxi-door ears. In one second—if you’re brave enough—everything will end. All of it. The pain. The vomiting. Do it.
I want to. The updraft from below watered her eyes. With it came the smoky scent of burning leaves. Tonight, those autumn leaves were just like her. Already dead on the tree, they just needed to fall.
Stop pretending you’re happy when you’re not. Give up. All of it could be over…
She nodded. Yes. Her happily-ever-after was a lie. It needed to end.
So do it. Lean forward. Just let go.
She wanted to. If only she were brave enough. Strong enough. Not just strong, but truly, powerfully strong for once in her life, if she could...
Just. Do. It!
“No,” she said to the wind, which was her despair talking. She wasn’t that crazy.
With her heart in her throat, Winslow stepped back from the edge. “But I want to!” she hurled at the October sky, itself filled with a brilliant splash of color at the end of what would have been her last day. Reds
, pinks and oranges swirled against the dark backdrop of purpling blues of a beckoning storm off the Atlantic, almost in celebration at her failure to fly.
How dare they! “Don’t think because I didn’t this time that I won’t do it next time. I can and I will. Someday. You’ll see!”
The wind chilled to a whip, stinging her wet cheeks with God’s eternal answer. No, Winslow. You won’t.
God was smart like that, and He was—right.
The truth held her back every time. She wasn’t a coward. If anything, this final act would’ve proven she had backbone. But who would take care of Pepe when she was gone? Who’d protect him from her mother’s temper? Her heels? Mom might be sad for a day or two, but she’d survive. On so many levels, her only child’s death would be a relief.
How many times have I heard that?
For the love of a little dog no bigger than a shoebox, she stepped back from the ledge. Poor Pepe would be lost if she didn’t return home. He’d be devastated.
“I’m sick of lying,” she whispered to the Almighty Listener in the stars. “I know it’s selfish, but I want someone, somewhere to...” To what? Truly care for me? Truly love me? Worry about me more than he worries about himself? Want me to live so badly that he might even fight for me? Ha. That would be Pepe.
Resignation welled up from the soles of her favorite boots. October whispered over her cheeks, promising a cold climb down even as it kissed her nose with a bite of the upcoming winter. She stilled the sorrow in her broken heart. The end would come soon enough.
Just not tonight.
Meat.
Junior Agent Tate Higgins knew how to hunt it, trap it, and put it on his table. Raised by his hunter/trapper father in the pristine wilds of deepest Alaska, he knew the ways of the moose and caribou, the deep, dark heart of the deadly brown bear, the grizzly. He knew its cousin, the ferocious Kodiak, second only in size to the polar bear. All three were deadly predators against which most men didn’t stand a chance. Except Tate.
He’d hunted them all. Bears weren’t much different than he was. They survived in a rugged land where survival was measured by stealth, understanding the heart of your prey, and, most importantly, killing what dared hunt you. The powerful 300 Winchester Magnum he usually packed on a hunt, upped his odds. So did his fifty-cal Desert Eagle. A smart hunter lived by one rule when hunting the mighty bear: Always shoot to kill.
A licensed big game guide in his younger days, he’d made a decent living before he’d up and joined the Corps. There, his hunting and survival skills earned him a spot-on reputation as a rifleman, what could’ve been a lifetime career as a scout sniper. He’d served his country and his fellow Marines well before he’d decided, at the war-hardened age of twenty-six, that a lifer’s career wasn’t for him. He didn’t need promotions or glory. Just to be left the hell alone.
So why was he standing under the dim porch light of a one-level ranch-style home on Maple Drive in Silver Spring, Maryland, in a tuxedo? Better yet, why was a fluffy, polar bear plush draped over his arm like it belonged there?
Because I’m stupid, that’s why. Plain and simple, he’d drawn the short straw. This prom night was the once-in-a-lifetime death wish of a young woman with cancer, and because his FBI boss, one annoying-as-hell Tucker Chase, catered to special requests like this. The ex-Navy SEAL wasn’t known for his compassion. Why now?
It wasn’t that Tate didn’t like helping others. He did. He just didn’t have the skill set to deal with women, period. Be they smart as a whip or a brick shy in the brain cell department, be they squat or super-model leggy, he wasn’t that man.
He was a loner. Always had been. No one ever called him suave or handsome. If anything, he was the opposite, a dusty John Deere to the feminine persuasions’ sleek Mercedes, a workhorse of a Bradley desert tank to their streamlined Cadillac. His were blue-collar skills, ruggedly so. Not white collar. Never dapper. Certainly not tuxedo worthy. Only now…
He worked one finger between his neck and the stiff collar of his penguin suit to draw a decent breath. Because he couldn’t show up empty-handed on prom night, he’d brought Fluffy along for the ride. He had to bring a girly gift for his date, didn’t he? It couldn’t be flowers. They meant something. Stuffed animals said nothing more than: ‘Glad to meetcha. Good to know ya. See ya later. Bye.’
At least tonight wasn’t one of those high-class, spoiled-daughter-of-a-rich-ambassador dates. No way. He wouldn’t be caught dead traipsing around D.C. with a celebrity brat on his arm, one who simply wanted to be seen with her own personal bodyguard. This was work. Not a date.
Chapter Two
Yanking at his tie again, Tate stabbed the doorbell one more time. Was it broken or what? His nostrils flared as the breeze drifting over the neighbors’ lawns brought with it the metallic tang of nitrogen, phosphorus and dew. People in the lower forty-eight sure spent a lot of money on fertilizing grass. What a waste.
To the right, an economy-sized vehicle sat in the driveway. A Chevy Spark. Denim blue. Hatchback. No doubt the mother’s vehicle. What was her name again? Oh, yeah, Joyce Parrish. Single mom. One kid dying of cancer. Last chance at happiness. Check, check, and double check.
Finally. The sound of heels clicked up to the door. He cleared his dry throat. It wouldn’t do to fumble this one-night stand by saying the wrong thing right off the bat. Tate took one last swipe over his head, making sure the gel his buddy, Ky, said would work, was actually working. Usually Tate hid his unruly mop under a hat, but noooooooo. Tonight he’d had to play nice like frickin’ Fred Astaire.
The brass knob turned. He took another deep breath and smiled. Showtime.
And there she was, the mother of the debutante he’d come to escort. Short spikes of silver-tipped black hair bristled over Mama Bear’s scalp. Five diamond studs glittered from the five holes in her right ear. More silver dangled from the left, giving her a lopsided look. Sharp gray eyes raked him down to his glistening-in-the-dark black patent leathers and back up, pausing at his zipper, then at his chest.
Okay, so I’m stout and wide. I’m not Sean Connery. Get over it.
Sweat trickled down his left temple, but Tate refused to wipe it away or shift his feet. That would only prove how uncomfortable he was. This woman exuded a boatload of female nerve, but he got it. She was the same as that grizzly sow, protecting her young, fending off stalkers and such. He met her eyes when they finally made it back to his face.
“So you’re the boy Dreams-Come-True sent to take my baby to the prom…” A sweep of her tongue over plump, shiny lips followed that slow, deliberate drawl. Her nose wrinkled at the sight of the stuffed bear on his arm. “Cute. Cliché, but cute.”
Tate let the toy slide down his arm to his thigh. He let the ‘boy’ comment slide too. Extending his free hand, he determined to see this night through because that’s what jarheads did. They finished what they started. “Tate Higgins, ma’am. At your service.”
When her eyes lit up, he wanted to kick his dumb ass. Who said ‘at your service’ anymore? Who’d he think he was? James Bond? Ky wouldn’t have said something so dumb. Certainly none of the smoother talkers back on Alex Stewart’s TEAM, Zack Lennox or Gabe Cartwright.
A television shrieked in the background, nearly drowning out Mama Bear. “Joyce Parrish. It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Higgins.”
“Nice to meet you, too, ma’am.” His head commenced pounding in the upper left quadrant, the beginning of a number ten migraine. He’d expected Cinderella to be ready and on his arm now, so he could sweep her off her feet and Get. On. With. It.
Mama Bear winked slyly, nodding him inside with a shrug. “Come on in. I’ll turn the TV down so we can talk.” She pivoted, and he got an eyeful he didn’t need. Mrs. Parrish was wearing stiletto heels with those shorter-than-short white shorts that left a portion of her deeply tanned backside exposed. A slinky purple knit-top slid seductively off one shoulder. Don’t think he failed to notice the lack of a bra strap or a tan line on that bronzed
skin he didn’t want to see. “You might as well come in. She’s going to be a while.”
Wasn’t that just like a woman. Make an appointment. Show up late.
As Tate lifted his big feet and followed Mama Bear, his nose flared at the odd mixture of odors inside the home. Medicines. Disinfectants. Alcohol, as in beer. And something else. Peaches and garlic and dog. Weird.
Right on cue, a brave little beast roared up the hall at Tate’s right, yapping all the way. His claws skidded on the hardwood floor at the last minute when his butt got ahead of his nose.
“Pepe!” shrilled Mama Bear, umm, Joyce. Err, Mrs. Parrish. Tate determined he would not succumb to terms any friendlier than Mrs. The way she’d acted, she might take it the wrong way. He’d never admit to Ky or the guys, but women intimidated him more than any breed of bear or that gold little Chihuahua she’d just sent sailing back down the hall on his back. “Stop it, you bad dog. Stop it! You behave, do you hear me?”
Tate winced at the repercussions of being enthusiastic in this household. The furry little bundle of energy rolled tail-over-teakettles a couple times before his nails dug in and he righted himself. When he did, he tucked his tail under his butt, and settled into a defensive position at the edge of the hall, quivering from head to toe. Not once did he take his mean little eyes off Tate. No. He hunkered one shoulder into the wall, glancing from Mrs. Parrish and back to the intruder in his house, still growling. Quietly, doing his job.
“It’s okay. That little rat’s not going to hurt me.” Tate tucked the stuffed bear under his arm and crouched, offering the back of his hand for the dog to smell. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Pepe growled, but didn’t accept the offer. Didn’t even wag his tail. Wasn’t that a sight? A two-pound mutt who thought he was big enough to take on a guy the size of Tate? What’d he think he was, a dragon? Tate clucked his tongue, hoping to make peace. Animals he understood.
Damned if Mama Bear didn’t lean over him, her palms on his shoulders, her knees in his back. Uncomfortable. She squeezed her fingers. “My, but you’re a big boy, aren’t you? Did you play football? Lift weights? You’ve got some really nice muscles.”
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