by Lisa Cooke
She clamped her mouth shut and sat back in her chair. This was getting nowhere, and he was having entirely too much fun getting there. She tapped her foot against the floor, thinking through exactly what she wanted to say to him when her attention diverted to a group of men who entered the room. They laughed and talked as they walked across the dining area and through a door in the back.
“Excuse me?” She motioned to the proprietor. “Where are those men going?” she asked when he reached their table.
“Some of the local men enjoy their cards in the back room. But you needn’t be concerned.”
Cards. “What do they play?”
“Poker.” He picked up their plates and walked away.
She looked across the table at Dyer, who for some reason shook his head. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Why not? It would be a perfect chance for me to practice.”
“A woman doesn’t practice poker in a back room with a bunch of men she doesn’t know. The Belle is much safer.”
“Those men didn’t look dangerous. Besides, I have you to rescue me.”
He rubbed the slightly purple jaw he’d acquired earlier in the day. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She tapped her foot again. Maybe she should trust his opinion on this. It wasn’t the type of place she usually frequented, and their lunchtime encounter wasn’t something she wanted to repeat. But she needed money.
“All right.” She reached into her reticule and pulled out her last five dollars. “Will you play for me?”
He narrowed his gaze and started to speak, but she interrupted him before he could refuse. “I need to win my entry, and this delay caused by your . . . lady friend, is costing me a night on the Belle. If you’re not going to let me play, the least you can do is play for me.” She reached the money across the table and waited.
He finally sighed and took the money. “What if I lose?”
“You won’t.”
“I do occasionally.”
She stood, smoothing down the front of her dress. “But you won’t this time.” She gestured toward the door and waited until he reluctantly stood and headed to the room.
He stopped beside her, lifting her chin with his finger. “You are to do nothing but watch.”
She placed her hand over her heart. “I swear.”
Dyer joined the game while Lottie scurried to find a chair and place it where the others couldn’t accuse her of seeing their cards. One of the men handed Dyer the deck and asked him to deal. He smiled sheepishly, then fumbled the deck, dropping half of it when he attempted to shuffle.
She frowned. Maybe he’d been hit harder than she’d realized. He dealt the cards around the table, apologizing profusely when one of them soared off the top and into a man’s lap. The others chuckled and assured him it wasn’t a problem, but Lottie had seen Dyer handle cards before and knew there definitely was a problem.
She stared at him across the room until he finally raised his eyes to her. The twinkle in their depths allowed her to relax a little. She would have to trust he knew what he was doing. She turned her attention to the others, watching their faces for any tells that might give away their hands. It was into the third hand when she noticed the pupils of one man’s eyes grew larger when he was dealt what turned out to be the winning hand. She continued to study him and realized his eyes didn’t react when his next hand ended with him folding.
Her belly knotted with excitement. The others’ eyes had similar reactions, and soon she picked up on twitches and unusual mouth movements. For the first time, she understood what Dyer had told her about tells. She could read everyone at the table, except Dyer.
His eyes were so dark his pupils weren’t visible even in bright daylight, and she found his mouth more distracting than telling.
Of course, the way he’d been playing, he wasn’t much to watch anyway. So far, he’d only won one of the last five hands. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing.
She mentally counted up how much of her five dollars he had left, wondering how long she’d have to work the tables on the Belle to earn enough to ante up again. Of all the times for him to have a bad night.
Dyer picked up his cards, careful to allow the worst in his hand to fall on the table before quickly grabbing it up. He saw the other men glance at each other and grin. By now they thought he was an easy mark, or at least they should. He had intentionally lost four of the first five hands, as he always did, and he thought his fumbling card act added a nice touch. It was time to add to Lottie’s funds, though he doubted the entire lot had more than thirty dollars to their name. Still, thirty dollars was thirty dollars.
He agreed to upping the ante, then won the next four hands. Things were going well until one of the men slapped the top of the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “I think we’ve been had.”
Dyer lifted his gaze from his cash. “What are you implying, sir?”
The man leaned across the table and frowned. “I should’ve seen it coming with your fancy clothes and all.” He spat on the floor without taking his eyes off Dyer. “Where are you from, boy?”
This had the potential to get ugly. “My wife and I are from New Orleans. We’re heading home to visit family. Her ma is sick,” he added as an afterthought. Sympathy might work to their advantage right now.
“You tellin’ me you ain’t a professional? One of them riverboat gamblers?”
Dyer chuckled. “Well, I must say, I never had anyone accuse me of that before.” He winked at Lottie. “I think it’s just that my wife doesn’t usually watch me play. She must be a good luck charm.”
The man glanced back at Lottie, then snorted. “Well, charm or not, I’m through for the evening.” He left the table with the others grumbling and following in his wake.
Dyer waited until they’d left before he collected the winnings. Lottie still sat in her chair, her eyes the size of saucers.
He walked across the room and handed her the money. “And that’s what I was hoping to avoid. These backwoods men don’t take kindly to some outsider coming in and cleaning them out.”
She glanced toward the door. “Do you think they’re waiting for you?”
He shrugged. “I think we need to go to our room and lock the door. They’re not likely to wait here ’til morning, and I told them we were going to New Orleans. If they’re planning an ambush, they’ll go south of the inn and wait while we go north.”
Dyer led Lottie quickly to their room, locking the door behind them while she lit the lamp. The room was furnished only with an iron bed, a tiny table for the lamp, and a washstand complete with a pitcher and bowl. It was small, but the bedding appeared to be clean, and he was so tired he thought he could sleep standing up. Not that he had any intention to, of course.
He removed his jacket and draped it across the footboard of the bed before he sat on the side and removed his boots. Lottie still hadn’t said anything, which probably meant she was dead, but he was too tired to check on that just now. He lay down on top of the quilt and closed his eyes.
“Mr. Straights?”
Well, at least she wasn’t dead. “Yes?”
“Do you intend to sleep there?”
“As soon as the room gets quiet.”
It did.
Damn. He opened his eyes. She stood beside the bed with her hands clutched tightly in front of her. Her tired face was pinched in concern, and he had no one to blame for that but himself. He sighed.
“Miss Mace, I cannot leave this room or those men downstairs will do me in. I’m too tired to sleep on the floor, and we have to get up early in the morning and ride several hours to catch the Belle in Greenville. If you want to stand there all night and watch me sleep, that’s fine by me, but you’re going to have to do it in the dark.”
He reached over, shut off the lamp and snuggled into his pillow, hoping his speech had talked some sense into her. In a few minutes he felt her gingerly lie on the bed, and the sound of her even breathing told
him she fell asleep almost instantly.
Unfortunately, the soft fragrance of her hair drifted through the darkness and every inch of his body suddenly awoke, keenly aware she was close enough to touch . . . and to kiss . . . and he had no one to blame but himself for that either.
Hell, he was in for a long night.
Chapter Nineteen
Did you sleep well?” It seemed a simple enough question to Lottie, but the look Dyer gave her in response spoke volumes more than the question merited.
“Like a babe,” he grumbled.
She waited patiently for him to do the polite thing and ask of her night’s passing, but he pulled on his jacket instead and headed to the door, grumbling as he went, “I’ll be in the dining room.”
“Oh bother,” she muttered to the closed door before quickly twisting her hair into a bun and grabbing her valise. She had the feeling if she wanted to eat, she’d better hurry. He wasn’t in a very accommodating mood this morning.
She rushed downstairs, and a young girl plopped a plate of fried mush in front of Lottie as soon as she took her seat.
“I took the liberty of ordering for you so we could get on the road.” Dyer lifted his coffee cup to his mouth as he spoke.
Mush wasn’t one of her favorites, but she wasn’t about to tell Dyer that at the moment. She dug into it, grateful that mush tended to stay in her stomach for hours. If yesterday had been any indication of what lay ahead, she might not eat again until they were on the Belle. She gobbled her food in an attempt to keep up with Dyer’s pace, and when he took his last bite, she gulped the rest of her coffee and stood with him.
A flash of amusement crossed his face, but at least he no longer looked sour. “I’ll pay up and get some food for the rest of our trip.” He reached into his wallet. “Go on outside and tell the stable boy to tack up our horse.”
Lottie nodded and hurried to the door, wondering why she felt guilty when she hadn’t done anything wrong. She crossed the yard, determined not to let his foul mood ruin her morning. Dyer must have just gotten up on the wrong side of the bed.
“Excuse me?” she yelled to the stable boy.
He pitched a flake of hay into one of the stalls and then walked toward her.
“Could you please tack up our horse?”
The boy wrinkled his brow and took off a worn cap to scratch his head. “Which one would that be?”
“The sorrel gelding.”
“We got three sorrel geldings in here. What’s your horse’s name?”
Lottie froze. “Surely you don’t know the horses by name.”
The boy nodded. “I always ask for that. It’s easier to control them if you call them by name.”
Lottie glanced back at the inn for a sign of Dyer, but of course she couldn’t be so lucky. She cleared her throat. “Maybe I could go in and show you which horse is ours.”
“No ma’am.” He shook his head. “It’s too dangerous in there. We got a stallion in the back, and he ain’t very friendly. Just tell me your horse’s name, and I’ll go get him.”
She pursed her lips. It looked like there was no way out of this. “Peckerhead,” she muttered.
The boy put his hand to his ear. “What?”
“Peckerhead,” she said a little louder. “The horse’s name is Peckerhead. Now could you just go get him, please?”
“Oh, Peckerhead.” He dragged the name out and said it much more loudly than he needed. “I remember him.” Odd how quickly he returned with the horse already saddled. But before she could question him, Dyer showed up.
“Ready?” He grabbed her around the waist and sat her on the horse’s back, then mounted behind her. He flipped the grinning stable boy a coin, and his return wink confirmed her suspicion.
“Did you enjoy that?”
Dyer spurred the horse forward. “What ever do you mean?”
“You know exactly what I mean. That boy made me say the horse’s name before he would get him for me.”
“Of course he did. It’s easier to control them if you use their name.”
She knew he was making sport of her, but the rumbling chuckle against her back felt so pleasant she decided to wait and get mad later.
The sun filtered through the branches of the trees, leaving dappled patterns on the road ahead. Birds chirped their morning songs, and the air still held the cooling temperature of the night. It was peaceful, and even though she knew Dyer’s arm around her waist wasn’t a hug, she allowed herself to pretend it was for just a moment. She’d really needed a hug of late.
“We should be in Greenville soon after lunch,” he said, breaking into her daydream.
“It’ll be good to get back on the Belle.”
“If she’s still there.”
Lottie hadn’t considered that possibility. “What will we do if she’s not?”
“We’ll just have to ride ol’ Peckerhead harder and not give up until he drops.”
“You’re not very humorous, Mr. Straights.”
“I’m not? Then why are you grinning?”
She wasn’t grinning. Was she? She bit her lip, determined not to grin at his boyish jokes, but found the task more difficult than she’d thought. She decided to remind herself of the seriousness of her situation. If that didn’t sober her, nothing would.
“So tell me, Miss Mace, why do you need money so badly?”
She gulped. It was bad enough having Newt poking around in her thoughts. “Same reason anyone does, I guess.”
“Are you in trouble?” All joking was gone from his voice, and the concern that replaced it made her heart ache.
“Of course not.” She fluttered her hand up to pat her hair. “I just need some new gowns, is all.”
Dyer grunted in disbelief. “Where’s your locket?”
She reached for her bodice. “Oh my. I—I must have lost it.”
She knew he didn’t believe her, but the arm around her waist tightened, and at least she no longer had to imagine her hug. Feeling his body pressed against her back calmed one set of nerves but sent another into a full tizzy. By the time they reached Greenville, she needed some distance.
“Are you going to sell the horse?” Lottie asked when they stopped at the livery in the small town.
“Hopefully.” Dyer dismounted, then wrapped his hands around her waist to help her down. An older gentleman walked out of MacGregor’s Stables to greet them.
“Howdy. I’m Kylie MacGregor. What can I do for y’all?”
Dyer pulled Lottie’s satchel off the saddle. “First, could you tell us if the Magnolia Belle is still in town?”
MacGregor nodded. “She was this mornin’, though I think she’s done woodin’ up. I don’t know if the captain is staying through to tomorrow or not. Ain’t much left of Greenville now-a-days.”
Dyer nodded. “So I’ve heard.” He gestured toward their horse. “I wondered if you could buy this gelding. My lady friend and I are rejoining the Belle, and we don’t need him anymore.”
MacGregor took the horse’s reins and patted him on the neck. “I’d be glad to have him back. I raised this horse.”
Lottie’s head snapped around. “Are you the one who named him?”
He nodded and grinned. “Sure did.”
“You should be ashamed of yourself naming an animal something like that. Have you no decency?” She left the two men to their business without waiting for his response. She didn’t particularly care to hear what flimsy reasons he could have for what he’d done.
The old timer took the horses reins from Dyer’s hands, took two steps toward the barn, then turned back with a confused expression. “What’s she got against the name ‘Skeeter’?”
Dyer shrugged. “You know how women are.”
Chapter Twenty
He watched Charlotte Mason hurry up the ramp to board the Belle. He’d been concerned when that idiot of a captain had thrown her from the boat. She was far from her goal—or perhaps he should say, his goal—of fifteen thousand dollars, and her leavin
g the Belle had only complicated things. But now she’d returned to win his money, and that was all that mattered.
Years of careful planning had almost gone awry. He hadn’t counted on Dyer Straights entering the picture, and even though it had concerned him at first, now he considered it poetic justice. The spoiled little rich girl and her Yankee lover were in for a rude awakening.
Lottie folded early for the second hand in a row. It wasn’t that her cards were terrible, but she’d decided earlier she was going to study the tells of the other players before risking all of the twenty-three dollars Dyer had earned for her. The man to her left kept his eyes downcast when he had a good hand, and Wayne Dawson chewed on his lower lip when his cards kept him in play. The man who’d won the last two hands rubbed his chin before revealing his winning cards, and though she’d yet to pick up on the others’ tells, she felt confident enough to stay in the next hand, should the cards merit.
She lifted them from the table, careful not to smile, giggle or hiccup as she discovered the beginnings of a club flush. She slid her two off-suited cards to the center and received the two new ones from the dealer.
Maybe it wasn’t right to pray for cards. It would probably insult God or tempt Him to teach her about the evils of gambling, but she did it anyway on the off chance that God had a sense of humor or at least realized she was doing this to help someone else. She picked up her two new cards and forced her face to drop, despite the fact she now held a club flush.
When it was her turn to bet, she hesitated, then cautiously pitched in the last of her chips. It worked, and when she raked in the pot, she doubled her money. An hour later, she’d picked up some tells from each player and had earned one hundred thirty-seven dollars.
She hadn’t prayed on the last four hands. There was no sense in reminding God she was gambling, especially since He currently seemed to be looking the other way. He was probably busy keeping His eye on the devil.
“May I join your game, gentlemen?” Lottie raised her eyes to see Dyer standing beside their table. “Miss Mace?”