by Cox, Deborah
"Stay here," he said, as he rose from his seat and went to investigate.
As soon as he was gone she dug in her pocket, taking out the vial she'd hidden there while she dressed in the doctor's office. She grabbed the cap and twisted, but nothing happened. Her gaze darted to where Rafe stood peering out the window. Her hands began to sweat, and she wiped them on the napkin in her lap. He'd be back any moment. If he caught her, she didn't even want to think about what he'd do.
She twisted the cap with all her might. Nothing. It wouldn't budge. Orange light reflected on Rafe's face as he talked with the man next to him.
"Damn!" she whispered.
Her heart pounded with the urgency of the situation. This might be her only chance to make sure Rafe was safely out of her way tonight, and she didn't even want to contemplate what he would do if he returned and found her attempting to drug him. She held the cap in her mouth, clamping her teeth on it, then twisted with her hand.
The cap gave.
She finished untwisting it and dumped the entire contents into his beer mug. His even footfalls echoed behind her as she secured the cap, and he sat down just as she slipped the empty vial back into her pocket.
"What was it?" she asked, hoping her voice didn't tremble.
He picked up his fork and knife before replying. "They've started a bonfire in the middle of the street."
"Isn't there any law here?" She watched Rafe cut his steak and put a piece in his mouth.
He chewed and swallowed, shaking his head until he could speak again. "Just one man. Better eat if you plan to keep up with me."
She picked up her fork, but she'd lost her appetite. Staring at the mug, she wondered belatedly if she'd given him too large a dose. What if it killed him?
"You know, I can move faster and safer alone," he said.
Unbelievable! He seemed to actually think she would trust him enough to let him go on without her. Maybe she shouldn’t care if it did kill him after all.
"And you can be all the way to South America before I know what's happened. I need that money."
"I told you... look, I'm only trying to save your hide."
"My hide is not your responsibility, Mr. Montalvo. I will take it wherever I want. If you try to leave me behind, I'll just strike out again alone."
He dropped his fork on his plate, the loud clatter causing her to jump. She could see anger in his eyes, in the clenching of his jaw, before he regained his air of indifference. "Why is this gold so important to you? Important enough to risk your life for?"
"Haven't you ever cared enough about anything that you were willing to die for it?"
She watched in amazement as the carefully constructed wall around him cracked, and for a fleeting instant she sensed she was seeing past the facade into the heart of the man. It was like that night in San Antonio when he'd caught her up in his arms and she'd glimpsed the unmasked pain in his eyes.
Then it was gone as if it hadn't been there at all. The crack closed and the hardness returned to his eyes.
"No," he said. "You about through wolfing down that steak?"
"You haven't finished your beer."
He picked up the half-full mug and downed the contents, then slammed the empty mug down on the table. He dug in a pocket and took out several silver coins, which he dropped beside his plate. When he rose, she knew he intended to walk around to her side of the table and help her up. She stood before he had a chance. He smiled knowingly as he took her arm, guiding her out of the cafe and into the dark street.
The bonfire the revelers had built in the street had died to embers. The men who had been responsible for unwittingly providing her with the diversion she'd needed to drug Rafe's drink must have drifted off to find other amusement.
Dozens of men wandered aimlessly in the darkness, their elongated shadows reaching from one side of the street to the other. Gunshots rang out sporadically, and voices shouted unintelligible words.
Instinctively, she moved closer to Rafe, who responded to her nervousness by tightening his hold on her elbow. It was a small gesture, but strength and confidence flowed from his body into hers. For a moment, she almost regretted what she'd done.
How long would it take for him to start feeling the effects of the drug? Would he make it back to the doctor's office? She certainly hoped so, since she'd never be able to carry him—or even drag him. What would she do if he collapsed now?
She didn't want to think about it. Instead, she turned her attention to the men milling about on the street.
"Why aren't those men fighting in the war?" she asked, more to take her mind off what she'd done than out of any real curiosity.
Rafe snorted in the darkness. "No future in it, no money to be made, too many rules."
The sound of raucous laughter across the street grated on her already frayed nerves. They were the same kind of men as the ones she'd encountered that night on the street in San Antonio, the same kind of men who roamed the streets of riverfront towns.
"But don't they care about the Confederacy?" she heard herself ask.
"Some claim to be loyal to the Confederacy, and some are Unionist to the bone. Of course, none of them are as loyal to any cause as they are to themselves. Whichever way the wind blows—"
"And what about you, Mr. Montalvo?" she asked. It was a question that had nagged at her almost since the first time she'd seen him. There was a war going on, yet this man seemed completely unaffected by it. "Why aren't you in the army?"
"The Confederate army?" he asked with a mocking smile, his white teeth flashing in the darkness. "Well, for one thing, I'm from New Mexico, not Texas, and New Mexico is Union."
"Then you're a Unionist."
She hated this war, hated both armies for disrupting the routine and fiber of her life, for adding to the hardships that had already been a part of her existence, but her heart remained loyal to the Confederacy. The South was her home.
"Didn't say that."
She couldn't see his face clearly, but she could feel his gaze on her, holding her with its magnetic power so she found it impossible to look away from his shadowed visage.
"Then what are you saying?" she asked a bit breathlessly.
He was silent for so long she thought he wasn't going to answer. Finally, he said, "I'm saying it's not my fight."
"You mean you have no opinion whatsoever?" Everyone had an opinion about the war.
"Didn't say that either."
"You certainly are being vague this evening." A loud burst of laughter drew her attention to the tent she'd seen earlier. Two men staggered out, their arms locked together for support. "Maybe you're like those men. Maybe there's no money in it, and that's why you don't want to get involved."
"So you think you've got me all figured out."
She heard the sarcasm in his voice. Though she couldn't make out his features, she could well imagine his expression. His eyes would be narrowed, his lips curved up at one end in a mocking smile. The image of those lips touching her forehead flashed across her mind and she took an involuntary step back.
It couldn't have been him. It couldn't!
"I... I don't know anything about you, Mr. Montalvo, except that the first time I saw you, you rode into town with a body slung over your horse. Not a very good first impression, you must admit. And after that, you began to follow me."
"Was that when I saved your life?"
"You and I both know why you saved my life, don't we? I'm valuable to you. You need me alive because I know where the gold is and you don't. That's the only reason I trust you at all, you know. You need me."
Rafe untied the horse from the hitching post and swung up in the saddle. Someone fired a lamp near the window in the cafe. A shaft of light fell across his sardonic features as he reached his hand toward her and smiled.
"We may soon find out which of us needs the other more."
Chapter 9
Anne's hand closed around the pistol in the pocket of her newly laundered skirt as soon as she
reached the bottom of the staircase. She glanced up the street toward the sounds of drunken laughter. Lights blazed from the big tent where she'd seen the prostitute earlier, and it was toward that structure that she made her way, her heart hammering a warning.
She wasn't sure what was more frightening – the abject silence that followed her up the street or the raucous sounds ahead of her. A tent. It wasn't even a building. She'd seen some disreputable saloons, but nothing like this. The air would be stagnant with cigar smoke and whiskey.
She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to be here. More than anything she wanted to go back to Natchez and the life she had so disdained. If only…
There was nothing there anymore. She couldn't go back, not to Natchez and not to the room where Rafe lay sleeping.
He hadn't moved, even when she'd nudged him with the toe of her new boot. He should sleep the night away, after all the laudanum she'd given him. In the morning, he'd never even suspect she hadn't been in bed all night or that she had enough money to leave him behind.
Stopping at the door, she dug in her pocket for the piece of onion she'd taken at dinner.
Courage, Anne-Marie. Her father's voice rang in her ear. There was no comfort in his words. Usually when he encouraged her to be brave, it was because he was about to put her in some kind of danger. She couldn't blame him this time. She’d been dealt a losing hand-father dead, aunt dead, no money. The only choice she had was to play that hand. Her survival depended on it.
She took a deep breath, wishing there was another option. "Courage, Anne-Marie."
She rubbed it over her fingers and tossed it on the ground. One of her father's women, an actress, had taught her the trick. You rub onion on your fingertips, and then when you need tears, you just touch your fingers to the corners of your eyes.
To her shame, she’d used it more than once to sway Papa from some self-destructive path. Then again, if she’d used it more often, maybe he’d still be alive today.
With a deep breath, she pushed memory aside and made her way through the door. This had to work.
As she expected, she was engulfed in offensive odors. The hour was late, but the saloon wasn't nearly as deserted as she'd hoped. There were two poker games in progress and about twenty spectators spread out between them.
She studied the faces of the men at the first table. They seemed bland and harmless enough, except for one man with black slicked-back hair and sharp shrewd eyes, like those of an eagle or a hawk. He chewed on the stub of a cigar beneath his thin mustache, his lips curling in an unpleasant smile as he placed his cards on the table.
From the reactions of the other men at the table, she knew he'd won and she guessed that he was cheating. He looked the type.
There were four players at the other table. The dealer looked like a farm boy, with a round face, dull eyes, and chubby fingers that fumbled over the cards. She couldn't help wondering what he was doing here in this place. His round sun darkened face and large brown eyes revealed his inexperience. There was an air of naiveté about him that made her feel sorry for him even as she calculated ways she could use him. He would probably feel obligated to protect her honor, should he sense it was in jeopardy. And beyond that, she would have no trouble enlisting his help for the next leg of her quest. He might not be as deadly with a gun, but he would be much less dangerous, much more reliable and easily controlled than Rafe Montalvo.
To his left was a small clean-shaven man dressed like a dandy. He seemed more interested in the saloon girl who stood behind his chair massaging his shoulders than he was in the cards. He would be a source of income. Overconfidence emanated from him. He would see her as an easy target and she would let him think that until she relieved him of that stack of money in front of him.
Next to him was a huge brute of a man who kept drinking from the bottle at his side. His eyes were red, his hands unsteady. He stunk of alcohol and sweat, and judging by his appearance, he hadn't had a bath or changed clothes in days. He was too drunk to put up a challenge. The last player was a man who resembled the ticket agent in Ubiquitous: small-boned, thin, with wire-rimmed glasses so thick they made his eyes appear twice their size.
She stifled a smile and made her way toward the second table.
"Do you have room for one more?" she asked.
The farm boy started as if he'd been prodded with a hot poker. He leaped to his feet, dropping his cards face up on the table—a pair of sixes, jack of diamonds, three of clubs, four of spades.
The room fell silent, all eyes on her. A hot breathlessness filled the tent.
"Ma'am?" the farm boy said, grabbing his cards and overturning a beer in the process.
"Jesus Christ!" the drunken brute said, coming to his feet quicker than she would have thought him capable of doing.
A man in a white apron hurried over and mopped up the spill while the spectacled gambler apologized profusely and the brute cursed.
"Ain't no women allowed in here," the drunkard growled.
She looked pointedly at the saloon girl.
The man in the apron said, "You wanna dress like her and serve drinks, fine. Otherwise..."
With a practiced sob, she touched her fingers to the corners of her eyes and the tears started.
"I... I don't know what to do."
"There, there, miss," the spectacled man said. He came to stand beside her and guided her gently to his own chair.
She was as good as in. She only hoped she could see the cards once they started playing. Her eyes burned as if they were on fire, and the tears kept coming, which was good for her ruse but not so good for seeing.
"My... my pa... he went to join the army. Got killed at Vicksburg. I need money to get to my uncle's in California."
"You ever played poker before?" the dandy asked.
She sniffed theatrically. "Well, no, but I—used to watch my pa play and—and I'm a real fast learner." She withdrew the money pouch from her reticule. "I have thirty dollars." She dumped the money on the table before her to prove her words.
"I wouldn't feel right, taking your money," the dandy said. "Deal the cards, farm boy."
"But... but fifty dollars won't do me any good. I'd just as soon be broke. If I don't win enough tonight to get to my uncle, why, I... "—she gazed at the painted woman behind the dandy—"I suppose I'll have to find employment and stay here."
"Let her play," the spectacled man said. "Can't you see she's desperate?"
The dandy's gaze crept from her face down her throat to her breasts in a slow, assessing manner. She clutched her hands to her bosom and gave him a look she hoped was a mixture of affronted modesty and shock.
The drunkard who had remained silent so far blurted, "Hell, I know how you can make twenty dollars real quick!"
"You shouldn't talk that way," the farm boy interjected. "Can't you see she's a lady? I say we let her play."
"Me too!" It was the man with the glasses. He dragged a chair from an empty table and she sat beside her. She beamed at him appreciatively.
"Deal," the dandy growled. He turned to Anne. "You know how to play five-card stud?"
She gaped at him mutely.
"I'll explain," the spectacled man offered, and she was treated to a long, boring explanation of a game she'd been playing since age eleven.
She was careful to lose the first couple of hands, staying in the game long after she should have folded. Several spectators had drifted to their table, undoubtedly drawn by the sight of a woman gambler. Some stood behind her, looking over her shoulder at her cards, and she didn't want to appear too knowledgeable.
"Now, tell me again," she said, studying her cards intently. "Does a full house beat three of a kind?"
"Yes, ma'am, it does," the farm boy responded. She gave him her sweetest, most demure smile and he flushed and gazed away sheepishly.
"And what is a straight?"
The dandy slammed his cards down on the table in disgust. "Haven't you lost enough money yet?"
"Leave he
r alone, dude," the farm boy warned.
She fingered her cards as if in indecision. She was holding two tens and three throwaways. She'd never be able to win outright with a hand like that, but if they fell for the bluff, she wouldn't have to show her cards.
"I'll hold on to these," she said with a smile.
"I fold," the spectacled man said.
"Me too," said the farm boy.
The dandy glared at her uncertainly, then gazed back at his hand. "Shit! I'm out too."
All eyes turned to the last man, the brute who sat slumped forward in his chair. His eyes had rolled back, and his head lolled from side to side.
"Mister, you in or out?" the farm boy asked.
When there was no response, the dandy poked him on the arm. "What's it gonna be?"
The drunk man belched loudly, then slammed his beefy fist down on the table. "I'm out... for good."
"You quitting?" the dandy asked as the drunkard began raking in his money.
"Yep. Much as I'd like to stay for the fun, I've had it."
He stood unsteadily and stumbled away from the table. Anne placed her cards face down and reached for the small pot in the center of the table.
"What did you have?" the farm boy asked.
"Oh!" She turned to her mentor in feigned confusion. "But you said that if no one called, I didn't have to show my cards."
"Well, yes," the man with the glasses agreed, "but if you don't show us your cards, how will you ever learn?"
"The lady's right."
She gazed up to see that her champion was the black-haired man from the other table. He smiled down at her, and her stomach turned over.
"Mind if I sit in?" The man lowered his tall, lean frame into the recently vacated chair without waiting for an answer.
Her throat constricted. She tried to think of some excuse to turn him away, but the others were already welcoming him into the game and the cards were already being dealt.
Almost immediately, the luck seemed to move around the table to Rollins, the lean-faced, black-haired newcomer. Something in his eyes made her skin crawl. They were cold, bottomless eyes, as clear and sharp as a hawk's.