by Lisa Cooke
A little of her spark seemed to be returning.
“In this game, you can replace any card in your hand right off. Just decide which ones you don’t want, and ask the dealer for new ones.”
She took two cards from her hand and laid them on the table. “I’d like two aces, please.”
“Any particular color?”
She smiled wistfully, and the angry tension in the air suddenly changed to something else. “Pink would be nice.”
She picked up her cards as he replaced one of his own, but he couldn’t pull his eyes from her. The damn gown shoved her breasts up so that every breath had him wondering, and hoping, a seam would rip. The little chain around her neck disappeared between those same breasts, and he found himself envying the locket he knew lay tucked at the end.
Warm, smooth flesh rose up and down with each breath, and the shadowed valley between seemed to call his name . . .
“Mr. Straights?”
He jerked his eyes to her face. “Yes?”
“Do I bet now?”
He glanced down at his hand and cleared his throat. Poker. They were playing poker. “If you’d like.”
She smiled and slid all her chips to the center. “I’m all in.”
All in? Hell, he’d give his left nut to get all into her. Or at least he would if she didn’t already have it. He glanced back at his hand. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t great either. A jack high could win, especially with only two players in a game like Draw. What were the chances of her having anything higher?
“Call,” he said, adding his chips to the center. He laid down his hand.
“I have a pair of queens.” She clapped her hands together in excitement. “I thought my smile had given it away. I just couldn’t keep it from slipping out.”
Smile? How had he missed that? Oh, yeah. He hadn’t managed to get his eyes up that far.
“Good job, Miss Mace. I believed you’ve just earned your stakes for to night’s games.” He reached into his jacket and removed his wallet, counting out one hundred dollars to pay his debt. “Or you could buy a ticket home.”
She picked up her money, folding it to tuck into her bodice before she stood and walked to the door. “I’m not a quitter, Mr. Straights. I thought I explained that to you.”
She slipped out to the deck before he muttered to his empty cabin, “Yeah, I guess you did,” and wondered why it felt emptier right now than usual.
Chapter Twelve
The town of Vicksburg, Mississippi, practically purred with the excitement of the rebirth of the South. Lottie could see new buildings under construction and people hustling to and fro as the town pulsed with the day’s activities. Each port they visited added new developments and interesting travelers, though Lottie had to admit that Natchez’s contribution of Mimi Anderson and Joseph Cullen could have been omitted without much loss.
Wayne Dawson was a polite enough gentleman, however. She hadn’t had a conversation with him since the morning she’d met him, but he always smiled when passing and never made indecent comments to the saloon girls. She made a mental note to ask Mr. Dawson about Dyer’s war history. It might help her make sense of why a fellow Confederate soldier would want to do what he did to Dyer’s family.
She walked over to the edge of the rail to see the boarding passengers more clearly. It was easy to spot the ones who intended to book passage up river as opposed to just eating lunch. They carried valises and usually arrived early to assure a cabin.
“Any of them you think you can fleece?” Dyer stepped beside her at the rail.
She knew his plans for the day simply by the way he dressed. No suit jacket covered his light blue chambray shirt. Plain canvas pants fit snuggly on his hips where his gun belt rode low. She’d noticed he never wore his most expensive suits when going into the ports for information. People must talk to him more if he dressed like them.
“I would never cheat anyone,” she answered, watching the people pick their way up the gangplank.
“Then maybe I should ask if there’s anyone there you think can fleece you.”
“I imagine just about anybody could if they wanted to.” She looked up at him, raising her hand to block the sun’s glare from her eyes. “Maybe my next lesson needs to be on how to spot a cheat.”
He adjusted his Stetson, ending with a tip of the brim as a gesture of leaving. “Possibly,” he said, then turned toward the stairs that led to the dock.
“Mr. Straights?”
He looked back at her over his shoulder. He seemed distant today.
“Good luck.”
He knitted his brows and gave a barely perceptible nod before stepping down the stairs to the gangplank. She had started to tell him she knew why he searched. She wanted to offer to help, but Newt’s warning kept playing in her mind. If Dyer needed to do this alone, then so be it.
Why Lottie chose to glance back at the port at just that moment was beyond her. It could have been the uneasy feeling in her stomach or the chill that suddenly went down her spine, but what ever the reason, she locked gazes with a stranger boarding the Belle. He was a heavy man, though no taller than Lottie herself. His thick dark beard and piercing stare sent a shudder through her body. She left the rail, moving quickly into the safety of the restaurant.
He watched as Dyer Straights made his way into the town of Vicksburg. It was all he could do not to laugh at the traitor’s stupidity. Straights actually thought he would find the man who’d killed his family by asking the idiots in town for answers. But the great Captain Straights was flapping in circles.
None of the people in Vicksburg knew anything. None of the people in any of the ports knew anything. They never had and they never would. There was only one person who had the answers Straights wanted . . . and he wasn’t in Vicksburg. He was standing on the deck of the Magnolia Belle watching a fool.
Chapter Thirteen
Why did life have to be so damn complicated? Dyer had fought hard to rid himself of any extra complications so he could focus on finding the killer. It had all been so simple. He played cards, he bedded women, and he hunted for a killer. And he didn’t want it any other way.
So when did it change? When did he start spending so much time worrying about Lottie and her damn lessons and her damn need for money? She had him hopping like a puppet, rearranging his schedule to suit her and pushing away the attentions of beautiful women like Mimi Anderson. And for what? It wasn’t as though there were a future for him and Lottie. After he found the killer, the future was . . . hell, it was complicated. And it was well past the time to uncomplicated things again.
A scratch for her itch, that was all Mimi wanted, Dyer thought as he watched her sashay toward him across the deck. She was beautiful, and she came with no strings attached or expectations of things he could not give. Shoving her away was a mistake he would not make again.
“Good evening, Mrs. Anderson,” he said, offering an arm to usher her into the gaming salon.
“So now you want my company?” The little moue on her full lips was designed to make him feel guilty. It didn’t work, but he was just as good at acting as she was.
“I’ve always wanted your company.” He pulled her hand to his lips. “I’ve just been a little preoccupied lately, and for that, I humbly apologize.” He grinned suggestively. “Forgiven?”
A giggle, and a coquettish bat of her eyelashes told him that not only was he forgiven, he was as good as laid. He placed her hand on his arm and escorted her into the salon. To night his plan was to regain his distance from little Lottie Mace. No more big green eyes looking up at him as though he hung the moon. Mimi was only interested in how other things hung, and that was fine by him. Yes, sir, to night he planned to take back his manhood and use it to give Mrs. Anderson the time of her life.
He led Mimi to the bar and ordered a whiskey, before he turned around to face the crowded room. So far, so good. He already felt like his old self, and when Mimi snuggled against his side, good old-fashioned lust even sti
rred in his loins. He allowed his eyes to drift across the room, but damn it if they didn’t home in on a green satin dress and all the curves inside it.
He downed his whiskey and turned his attention to Mimi. “So tell me, Mrs. Anderson, what would you like to do this evening?”
Her full breast brushed against his side as she snuggled next to him, placing her hand on his chest.
“Welll,” she said, intentionally drawing out the word to heighten the anticipation. “We could renew our acquaintance.”
Her puckered lips and lash-lowered gaze left little doubt as to how she wanted to accomplish their renewal. He leaned over and kissed her, lifting his head just in time to meet Lottie’s stare from across the room. She turned quickly to talk to the men at one of the tables, but not before the hurt expression on her face tied his gut in a knot.
Hell. That was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted Lottie to see he wasn’t the man for her. She was a good and decent woman, and she deserved more than a heartless bastard like him.
“Dyer?” Mimi’s voice brought him back to the bar. “Is something wrong?”
“Of course not, sweetheart.” He flashed a quick smile. “Maybe we should take a walk out on the deck.” Leaning over to whisper in her ear, he added, “We’d have more privacy out there.”
Her smile of agreement wasn’t really necessary. He had to get out of the salon and away from Lottie before he did something stupid. Mimi was his target for the night, and he was going to bury himself so deeply into her that he wouldn’t even remember Lottie’s name.
He led Mimi from the gaming room with a casual saunter despite his urge to run like hell instead.
“Well, now,” her sweet Southern voice poured over him like honey when he pulled her into a shadowed area on the deck. “This is more like it.”
She turned her lush mouth up for his enjoyment while she ran her hand down to the front of his trousers. Mimi always went for what she wanted. No blushing virgin or sweet maiden there. No need for gentleness or concern for her fulfillment. She would take what she wanted and continue taking until there was nothing left to give.
He crushed his mouth against hers and grabbed her breast, trying to force his body to want her. But his mind’s eye wouldn’t erase the look on Lottie’s face when he’d kissed Mimi in the salon. He shoved his hand into the neckline of Mimi’s dress, hoping the feel of her flesh against his hand would bring his thoughts back to the willing woman pressed against his body.
“Oh, Dyer,” she murmured. “You’re really wild tonight.” She rubbed her hips against his groin. “Let’s go to your cabin.” She tugged him in the direction of his room . . . the place where he taught Lottie poker.
He stopped.
That wouldn’t do.
“How about your cabin, sweetheart? Mine’s a bit of a mess right now.”
“I don’t care where we go, sugah, as long as we get there quickly.”
They hurried to the steps that led to the passenger cabins while Mimi dug through her reticule for her key. The deck was mostly deserted as they made their way the short distance to her door. She handed Dyer her key, pulling his head down for a toe-curling kiss just as he heard a muffled sound from the deck below.
He lifted his head. “Did you hear that?”
“That’s just my heart pitter-pattering,” she answered, pressing against him for more, but another sound cut through the night.
“Stop it!” A woman’s voice came from the deck below.
He drew back from Mimi. “Someone’s in trouble.” And the someone sounded like Lottie.
“Dyer?” Mimi called to him from behind, but he didn’t take time to respond as he bounded down the steps toward the sound of Lottie’s voice.
Heart pounding, he raced down the deck until a movement in one of the hallways that cut across the boat caught his eye. A large man had a woman pinned in the shadows, and a glimpse of green satin confirmed his fears.
A guttural roar ripped from his lungs as he grabbed the man’s coat, spinning him around.
“What the hell?” were the last words the bastard spat out before Dyer’s fist connected with his face, sending him sprawling to the deck.
“What’s your problem?” the man sputtered, spitting blood as he pulled himself to his feet. “She’s just a saloon whore! It ain’t like it matters!”
Dyer grabbed the front of the man’s jacket. “If I ever see you on this boat again,” he ground out, “I’ll kill you.” He pitched the man over the rail into the muddy waters of the river, not noticing or caring if he surfaced, before he turned to Lottie.
She sat on the deck, leaning against the wall where the bastard had attacked her. Her large eyes glistened with unshed tears, and a single hand clutched at the torn bodice of her gown. She stared forward in shock.
“Lottie?” He helped her to her feet. “He’s gone now,” he murmured against her head, wrapping her in his arms.
He had been wrong about having no heart, because every shiver that ran through her was ripping his in two.
“Can you walk?” A barely detectable nod of her head answered his question. He removed his jacket, wrapping it around her shoulders before he led her to his cabin.
He sat her on his bed and lit a lamp to chase away the darkness, but when he saw her face, his rage returned with a vengeance.
“I’ll kill that son of a bitch.”
She blinked her eyes as though his promise had broken through her shock. “I’m—I’m all right.” Her voice trembled, and her feeble attempt to show bravery hit him like a kick in the gut.
He poured some water in the basin and dampened a washcloth, surprised to see his hands shaking as he wrung it out. He sat beside her, gently placing it against the welt on the side of her face.
“He hit you,” he said, trying to calm down. She needed his help right now, and allowing himself to lose control wouldn’t help anyone.
“I bit him.” She blinked once, then turned her face toward him. “He didn’t like it.”
Dyer kissed her forehead before he pulled back to ask, “Did he do anything . . . else?”
She looked down at her dress. “He tore my gown.”
An angry red scratch marred the top of her breast where the bastard had grabbed at her bodice. Dyer took a deep breath, willing his anger to subside again. The son of a bitch was already off the boat and had no doubt gone back into town. It was the only reason he was still alive.
One of the large tears that to this point had stayed in her eyes, spilled out and rolled down her cheek. “I can’t—can’t go outside like this.”
He wrapped her in his arms, pulling her against his chest to allow the tears to finally break free.
“I—I didn’t know what to do,” she sobbed. “I kicked him, and I hit him . . .” Her voice broke off as she buried her face into his shirt.
He laid his cheek against her head, holding her until the tears stopped with a hiccup and a tiny sigh.
“He didn’t . . . he didn’t . . .”
Dyer knew she was trying to tell him she wasn’t raped, but she just couldn’t force herself to say the word.
“That’s good,” he answered, saving her that small amount of distress.
With a wipe of her hand across her cheek, she sat up and glanced at his shirt. She covered her mouth with her hand. “I’ve ruined your shirt.”
He brushed at the makeup smudges and lied, “It’s an old shirt anyway.”
“I could buy you a new one.”
“Nah, Miss Mace. You need to save your money to enter the poker tournament, right?”
The weak nod that answered his question was without conviction, and he would’ve given anything to see the old spark in her eyes. But it was too soon to expect that, he guessed.
“What you need right now is a drink.” He rose from the bed, retrieving a bottle of whiskey and a couple of glasses from his table.
“I don’t drink,” she said, watching his every move.
“Now’s as good a time
to start as any.” The amber liquid glistened in the lamplight as he handed her a shot. “It’ll help you sleep.”
She wrinkled her nose and took a sip. The shudder that ran through her body put a smile on his lips.
“That’s some mighty fine bourbon you’re shuddering through.”
“I guess that’s a matter of opinion.” She looked at the glass as though it held poison instead of whiskey.
“Think of it as medicine.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a clean shirt. She pinched her nose and downed the rest of the contents, shuddering again as the whiskey rolled its way to her belly. The face she made brought a chuckle from him despite the circumstances.
“Why do men drink that intentionally?”
“We’re stupid, I guess.” He handed her the shirt. “I’m going to step outside while you take off your torn dress and put this on to sleep in. Let me know when you’re under the covers, and I’ll come in and turn out the lamp.”
The flash of panic in her eyes made him regret again that he hadn’t killed the bastard.
“I’m going to sleep out on the deck to night,” he said.
“I can’t run you from your cabin.” Her hand shook as she smoothed back her hair. “I can go to mine—”
“I’m going to sleep outside this door,” he interrupted, “so you’ll be safe.”
He had fought many battles and faced many dangers in his life, but the slight quiver of that woman’s lip almost brought him to his knees.
“Thank you,” she whispered as he escaped to the deck.
Lottie forced her eyes open as soon as the sun’s light peeked through the window of the cabin. It was morning, and she hadn’t intended to sleep that long. Now she was stuck in Dyer’s cabin with no darkness to hide her flight back to her room or cover the tear in her gown. She supposed she could wear his shirt over her dress, but then everyone who saw her would assume she had spent the night in his bed. Which was true, but not in the way they would think.
She climbed out of bed and padded across the room, where her gown lay draped across the back of a chair. Maybe in the light of day, the gaping rip wasn’t as bad as she had remembered. She lifted the gown to examine the bodice and frowned.