Tyra's Gambler

by Velda Brotherton

  The heat of the day dried their clothes, and they found an animal path through a mix of trees she didn’t recognize. The oak, yes, but the others were all strange to her. What a wild place this Texas was. Hills and valleys, flatland plains riddled with springs and streams, deep gorges and, scariest of all, wild water. Though he was limping badly, Zach insisted she ride while he walked beside her. After a while, she slid from the saddle and took his hand.

  “You walk, I walk, but I wish you’d ride. You still have to cross over and get Josh’s horse.”

  He leaned on Morgan for a minute, then nodded and swung into the saddle. She walked along beside him, bare ankles brushed by tall weeds.

  “You were brave back there. For a woman.”

  “Hey, for a woman?”

  “Well, you know what I mean.”

  “I know precisely what you mean, Zachariah.”

  “Uh-oh. Change of subject. Good thing about the shoes, wasn’t it?” He tousled her hair, drying into curls.

  “I’d say so.” He was going to let her go with him. It was clear in his voice, the way he kept looking at her, touching her.

  “I can win enough to buy you some boots and new britches, but I sure like the way you look in that outfit. You’re all decked out.”

  She laughed, and he did too.

  No matter what happened next, and it could be bad, they were together. And that man, whoever it was who shot Josh, he had better look out, ’cause they were coming.

  They were both coming, and he wouldn’t live through it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The log trading post hunkered on a high spot where two creeks came together, as if fearful a strong wind might blow it away. Zach reined up and eyed the crude sign above the door that read Brazos Branch Trader. Under it was carved A. Sampson, Prop. Two elderly men sat on a hand-hewn bench beside an open door. On the opposite side hung a variety of harnesses, reins, bits, horseshoes, and tools. A couple of shovels stood propped beneath.

  He let the chestnut put his nose in the water trough next to a hitching rail and climbed down. Tyra followed suit, staggered against Morgan’s side when her feet touched the ground. He stepped in to cup her elbow, and she leaned on him. She smelled of leather and sweat and sunshine, rich earth, and a glorious wildness that beckoned to him. Before they met he had been in a world much darker and more dangerous than this one. No woman had ever loved him before this. Now he was about to leave her, and he couldn’t bear to think of going. He was a fool.

  Yet what in the world would he tell Josh’s mother if he didn’t avenge his death? Yeah, hide behind that as an excuse. Is getting revenge on that bastard important enough to lose her? He leaned his head against hers, took a deep breath, and felt the sting of tears.

  She remained close, sniffed. “I need a bath. Believe you do too.”

  “Well, maybe, but there’s nothing here but the creek. So don’t go getting naked just yet.”

  “Maybe we can find a secluded place on down the trail.”

  One of the men on the porch lifted a gnarly hand and grinned a toothless smile, rheumy eyes pointed at her. The old fart. “Howdy, folks. Come fur, did ya?”

  “A piece.” He caught her arm when she stumbled. “You okay?”

  “Feels a bit like when we stepped ashore after being on the ship so long. Sea legs, the sailors called it. Is it horse legs here?” That smile ran all over her face so everything shone. He wanted her in his arms, up against his weary body. Soothing his soul. Now who was the poet?

  “Come here, girl.” Right in front of the two old men, he pulled her close. “Can’t seem to keep my hands off you. Sorry.” He kissed the top of her head, let her go.

  One of the men elbowed the other, and they grinned like possums. Hell, he didn’t blame them one bit. Anyone didn’t enjoy looking at Tyra was blind.

  She returned their amusement and followed him up the steps, appearing to have regained her energy.

  Inside it smelled like a hay barn, a feed bucket, clean clothes, tobacco smoke. All manner of items from denims and dresses to tools and groceries hung on the walls and lay folded on roughhewn tables set so close together there was barely space to slip between them. Toward the back of the crowded room a counter ran crosswise, and behind it stood a mountain of a man. He wore overalls. Where in thunder had he found a pair that fit? His arms, the size of tree trunks, were bare around the bib and galluses. He perched on an extra-large high stool. On shelves behind him were rows of canned goods. Zach checked some things over, then went to talk to him.

  “Got no money, just a good leather saddle. Like to trade for some supplies.”

  “I could use a saddle. Could probably sell it in no time. You want to bring it in?”

  Pleased, Zach headed for the door.

  Tyra sat on the floor near the front, shoving her bare feet into a fine pair of new boots. He stopped. God, even all dirty and sweaty, and in that getup, she was the prettiest thing he’d ever had the pleasure of beholding. She stood, stomped each foot, turned halfway round, saw him, sat down, and removed one boot.

  He went to her, squatted, touched the boot still on her foot. “You want ’em, man says he’ll take the saddle in trade for some stuff. Says no one around here plays poker, but there’s a small settlement back off the main trail a ways where cowboys gather when they’re driving herds west. I could probably get a game going there to buy some more supplies.”

  She took off the other boot. “Get food and replace our camping gear with the saddle. If you win, then I can come back and get these.” She stuffed her feet in the fancy shoes from the stage station. “And Zach?”

  “Hmm?” He rose with the boots in his hand. She was getting them now.

  “Win me enough to replace my Colt. I feel plumb naked.”

  “You are plumb naked, girl, right under that shirt and those silly britches.”

  So she left with new boots, the tops of which almost reached the hems of her “silly britches.” Pocketing the cash money bartered for Josh’s saddlebags which the mountain man took a liking to, he had him pack their purchases into two tow sacks, which he tied over the back of Josh’s barebacked horse along with the full water bags. The same horse Tyra had stolen in Cuero. Theft enough to get them both hung in Texas.

  A ways up the trail he veered off on a narrow path marked by a board nailed to a tree that read “Brazos Creek Junction 1 mi” with an arrow, like there might be any other way to go.

  After a while, Tyra came from behind to ride next to him and the newly promoted pack horse.

  “It’s so beautiful here.” She tipped her head back, let the wind tousle her hair. He couldn’t get enough of looking at her, listening to her sweet voice.

  “The wind in my face, the singing of trees’ leaves, and the rush of water makes me feel so peaceful inside. It must be what my sisters feel when they’re with the men they love. It’s a lot like something sweet and wonderful touched my heart and went right into the depths of my soul. Being with you, loving you, makes my spirit rejoice.”

  Just listening to her voice and the words soothed him like a song, so he waited. Maybe she’d say more, but that was enough right there to make him wish he could put his love into words like she did hers. All he could say was he loved her, and touch her and gaze at her all day without getting tired of it. And stay with her where he belonged instead of going off somewhere to kill a man, evil to the core. Still—

  “Do you think I’m being a silly romantic?” She paused, and when he didn’t answer said his name.

  The lump in his throat choked down words so inadequate he was ashamed. He reached out and captured her hand, held it. Wished like hell he could protect her from what he was going to do. That, or stop it somehow. But he could do neither, and so he said nothing, just held on to her.

  The sun was still high above the horizon when they rode into Brazos Creek Junction. A town it wasn’t. Just a large saloon set back a ways in the woods. How he knew that about it was the carved sign hanging off the porc
h roof. Not too imaginative, it read “Brazos Creek Saloon.” Six horses stood hipshot at a hitching rail, tails twitching at flies.

  “Best if you don’t go in.” He added his pair to the lineup at the rail and climbed down.

  She moved up beside him. “I’ll just get me a beer and be a good little girl.”

  He glared at her, then laughed. “Damn, girl, if you looked any funnier I could sell tickets.”

  “Oh, that’s nice, Zachariah. Very nice. On second thought, why not? Charge two bits a look. It would add to our cache, just in case you don’t win any money.”

  At the door he turned to her, still chuckling, and gestured toward an empty bench against the outside wall. “Sit. Stay. I’ll bring you a beer.”

  “Zach.” A tilted head, a warning gaze.

  He pointed to a sign: No Wimmin Allowed.

  She bent forward, stuffed her hair under her hat and put her hands on her hips. “Do I look like a wimmin to you?”

  “Oh, hell, come on. If anyone says anything, guess I’ll just have to whack ’em on their noggin. Or maybe I’ll just let you do it.” Shaking his head, he led her inside.

  The place was dark, with sunlight sneaking in through cracks in the walls. Dust and smoke danced in the fingers of light. The place smelled of old spittoons and stale cigars. At the bar, he ordered two beers, slid one to her, held up a finger in warning. She nodded, and he headed for one of the two tables where card games were in progress. He picked the one with the rowdiest sons of bitches in the place. Men like them rarely knew the fine art of playing poker, just knew bragging and bullying each other. The twenty-dollar gold piece felt cool against his fingers when he pulled it out and spun it on the tabletop.

  “This get me in a hand or so?”

  The bearded fellow near him laughed. “Always glad to take your money. Pull up a chair.”

  They were playing five-card stud, not his favorite game. “How about dealer’s choice?” he asked.

  “And I expect you want to deal?”

  “New money, why not?” He could be just as mouthy as the next man.

  “Take your turn, mister. It’s a buck to open.” This from a fellow who was neither a cowboy or a dandy. Might be the owner of a pig farm, from the look of him.

  Through slitted eyelids Zach sized him up. Hands too smooth for his appearance. Hiding what he really was. This one he’d need to watch. The bearded one said his name was Chester. He gave Zach twenty bucks for the gold piece and added it to his stack. Zach tossed one in the pot.

  He did all right the first few hands, was up twenty. Best to hold back till he had them all figured out and fooled into thinking he wasn’t real sharp. When it came his turn to deal, he changed the game to Texas Hold ’Em and turned serious.

  Three hands later, his winnings had increased to a sizeable pile, including his original gold piece. The mood around the table had changed from cautiously friendly to openly annoyed when Zach took a huge pot with three treys after bluffing down two better hands. It was time to get the hell out. Shouts of the losers attracted too much attention. He glanced toward the bar, but Tyra was gone.

  What the hell? She’d picked a fine time to disappear. He could only hope she was already outside with the horses, ’cause they needed to leave. And damned fast.

  He gathered his winnings in his bandana, tied it tight, and rose. “My lady is waiting outside. You know how that is. I’d better get out there before she comes in, guns a’blazin’.”

  “Not yet, you ain’t.” Pig Farmer leaped to his feet.

  Chester grabbed his arm. “Easy, Earl. Don’t go doin’ nothin’ stupid. He’s wearing a six-shooter.”

  “I don’t give a good goddamn if he’s wearing two! He ain’t leavin’ with all my money.”

  “Won it fair and square.” Zach held the heavy bundle of coins in his left hand, fingers tight around the knot, and laid the palm of his right on the butt of his Colt. “You really want to do this, mister?” He could bluff at gunplay same as he could bluff at cards.

  Pig Farmer’s beady-eyed gaze traveled to the holstered Colt, then climbed up to Zach’s face. “Aw, hell, what’s a few hands of poker lost? Get outta here ’fore I change my mind.”

  “Well, I don’t scare so easy.” The quiet fella who’d sat on Zach’s left all evening reached for the bandana. “Let’s just have one more hand, what do you say?”

  Zach swung the weighted bundle at the guy’s jaw, caught him square, and he went down like he’d been pole-axed. Damn. He hoped to hell he hadn’t killed the poor asshole. Time to skedaddle. And he did. Out on the porch, he took in the horses real quick and saw the Morgan standing there with the others. Where the hell was she?

  He trotted down the steps and headed for the animals, untied all six of those that had been there when he arrived, and fired a shot into the air. They scattered, and Tyra came running from behind the saloon, fastening her britches. She’d picked a hell of a time to go to the outhouse.

  “Come on. Time to go.”

  “I figured as much when I heard the shot. Waited as long as I could.” All that while she ran and made a flying leap, straddling her saddle without touching the stirrups.

  Where had she learned to do that? He’d have to ask when and if they lived through this. At the trail, he headed back the way they had come. Rode right on past the trading post, and she caught up with him.

  “What about my Colt? Didn’t you win?”

  “Yeah. I won. Why you think they’re chasing me?”

  “Well, then?”

  “No time. They’ll catch us.”

  “They aren’t going to catch those horses for an hour or more.”

  “Might.”

  “You go on, then. They don’t know me. I’ll go in and buy the shooter he had back of the counter and catch up with you.”

  Hell, no sense in arguing with her. You loved a girl like Tyra, you got used to losing most arguments. He tossed her the bandana. “Hang on to that. Don’t you let ’em catch you and take it away from you. That’ll feed us for a good spell. For God’s sake, get a decent pair of britches. And get some shells, too, would you?”

  She deftly caught the bundle, reversed direction, and rode away.

  Damn, if he wasn’t a fool for giving in to her every whipstitch. Couldn’t say no to her. He chuckled to himself. Hell, wouldn’t do any good if he did. She was bound to do something, then she did it. What he could do, though, was hide and watch. Nudging the two horses into a stand of mesquite out of sight from the trader’s, he switched his gaze from the door to the trail till she came running out, performed another of those running mounts and rode right on past him before he could get situated and get out there to meet her. He rode like loosened lightning to catch up.

  Like to never caught her, and when he did, she rounded on him with the loaded Colt.

  “Whoa, there. Don’t you go shooting me once again.”

  Thumb on the hammer, she lowered it gently and stuck the pistol back in its holster, never slowing the Morgan one bit. “Thought you was them catching up to me. Where you coming from?”

  “I waited for you in the trees, just in case.”

  “Well, let’s ride, then. Won’t do to get caught. What’d you do to them fellas, anyway?”

  “Took most of their money.”

  He urged Cabron forward, and she kept up. Soon after the sun slid below the horizon with its usual flare of reds and golds, he led her off the main trail and down to a thick growth of trees along the bank of the creek.

  “Let’s dry camp tonight. In case they do come along, they won’t see a fire. I’m hungry thinking about those cans of peaches. We can share one, then break in these new blankets and get an early start in the morning. How does that sound?”

  “Fine. I bet they’ve gone home to sulk by now, though.”

  After they took care of the horses and staked them where they could drink and graze on some of the gamma grass, he placed the two saddles next to each other, spread the new blankets on the ground, a
nd dug out a can of peaches and his Barlow. Seated cross-legged next to her, he speared a golden half dripping with juice.

  “Open up.” He offered the first one to her, then knifed one out for himself. The sweet juice cooled his dry throat, the fruit so soft he mashed it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth.

  “Oh, that is wonderful.” She moaned with delight.

  His loins tightened, and he right quick offered another half to her. Thought real seriously about setting that can down and grabbing her up, maybe opening her up and finding her special sweetness. Giving her something even more wonderful to moan about than peaches. He barely managed to hold off till the can was empty. She drank half the juice, her pink tongue coming out to lick first her lower lip, then the other. She held out the can so he could drink, and he took it, but couldn’t take his gaze off her luscious mouth.

  She nudged him. “Drink. It’s good.”

  He jumped, stared at the can in his hand. What the hell? He was thinking about those lips, that tongue licking him like it licked her. It finally occurred to him to drink the juice and set the can aside.

  A waxing moon hung in the darkening sky, so he could see her in the splatters of light falling through leaves overhead. “Take off your shirt, girl.”

  She held out a hand to him. “Come take it off your own self.” Her voice held a tone somewhere between teasing and sexy in that western drawl she’d perfected.

  “That’ll do it,” he murmured. Next thing he knew he had his hands all over that blamed shirt, trying to find the buttonholes, and failing that cupping her breasts through the fabric.

  Every nerve he had tingled with desire. If only he could go slow enough to make it last all night, he would. But his body told him that wouldn’t be possible. Shoving up the long hem of the shirt, he found at last some bare skin and spanned her waist, trembling like a youngster in heat.

  Her arms coiled around his neck and she breathed hot against the underside of his jaw, nibbled at his earlobe, laughed low and soft.

  “I stink. Let’s get in the creek.”

  “Oh, God, woman. First things first.” Much more of this, and he’d split his denims.