The Godmother (Everland Ever After Book 11)

by Caroline Lee

  Christa reached for the cards. “That mean you’re bowing out, Mr. DeVille?”

  The dark-haired man chuckled. “Nope. You’re stuck with me. And call me Max; we’re all friends in this town.”

  Nodding, she began to shuffle, her chin down. “I’ve noticed that. Never seen a town quite like Everland.”

  “And you never will!” Max declared cheerfully. “We’ve been around since the Oregon Trail came through this area, and the settlers stopped because of the lake. Have you seen it?” He didn’t give her time to answer, but hurried on, explaining, “Lake Enchantment is beautiful, and its waters are said to have healing properties. Why, there’s some ladies here in town who are bottling the water for special skin lotions and beauty potions and whatnot!”

  As the Gruff brother across from her chuckled, Christa offered the deck to the nodding one sitting at her right side. Terrell refused the cut, so she cradled the cards comfortably and noticed Max seemed to be waiting for a comment.

  “Seems a bit…magical?” she offered.

  “Yessir, it is a bit. My family moved here from the south years ago, but even I know there’s some mighty strange things going on around Everland!”

  “Yeah, like all the kissy-smoochy stuff,” Merrell growled.

  Max’s chuckle sounded forced. When Christa shot a glance his way, his smile appeared rueful, and he shrugged. “He’s not wrong. There’s a ridiculous number of happy couples around here. It’s like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “Must be something in the water,” offered Merrell. “You gonna deal?”

  Christa jerked her attention back to the cards and began to toss them around the table.

  Leaning forward, Max lifted his newly dealt hand, his attention on them as he spoke. “Even my brother, Roy Jr., is all starry-eyed these days. He just got married to Mabel Miller this past summer.”

  There wasn’t a lot for Christa to say, except, “I wish him well.”

  “She’s a bitch,” grunted Merrell, and Max snorted.

  Hmm.

  So Everland was full of happy couples. Even people who weren’t particularly well-thought of found love. If there was an entire guild of matchmakers in town, she supposed that would make sense.

  Christa found her attention not quite on the play as she considered her companions. If she were offered the job as the new godmother, she’d be part of the reason this town was full of so many happy couples. Would it be her job to find matches for the single men? Judging from the fact these three were sitting here playing poker on a Monday night, she had to assume they weren’t married.

  God help her if she had to find a match for the Gruff brother who bobbed like a pigeon.

  Could Terrell even speak?

  Judging from the state of his smile, he didn’t brush his teeth; and when the air moved just right, she knew he didn’t bathe that well either.

  Don’t borrow trouble.

  It was advice her mother had given her, too many years ago to count, but had served her well ever since.

  Just because Christa liked Everland, it didn’t mean she’d get the job with the Godmothers. And what kind of name was that for a group of matchmakers?

  Fanciful, just like this town with its Bavarian-style architecture, and its interesting names.

  And even if she did get the position, there was no telling how they assigned jobs. Maybe she’d be in charge of groups such as all the old maids, or the youngest men, or something like that. Or maybe the matchmaking was assigned based on seniority, and she’d be stuck with the hopeless cases.

  Like bobble-head there.

  Well dang.

  “I raise.”

  Dang again.

  Christa glanced at her hand, appalled to realize she’d been distracted during a hand of poker, one she couldn’t afford to lose.

  Her hand was alright, but she hadn’t been following the play well enough to guarantee a chance at winning, and she didn’t take risks unless she had a good chance, so she shook her head.

  “I’ll fold. Head wasn’t all there this time, fellas. Sorry.”

  When she laid her cards face-down against the table, Max snorted softly. “Well I, for one, don’t mind taking your ante.”

  Christa offered a polite chuckle and settled back to see if she could focus for the rest of the hand.

  She needn’t have bothered.

  “Is this seat open, gentlemen?”

  Max exclaimed in surprise, “Andrew! How in tarnation are you? Just back from New York, eh? Sit down, sit down in the empty spot. Jerrell’s taking his sweet time!”

  But Christa couldn’t drag her eyes away from the newcomer to process Max’s words.

  The man who was currently pulling off his snow-dusted jacket to join them at the table was tall and handsome, and dressed in a perfectly tailored suit.

  Handsome? No, that doesn’t even begin to do him justice.

  He was older than her by a decade, and his hair—when he pulled off his fancy hat—had already begun to turn salt-and-pepper. There were lines at the corners of his dark eyes and around his mouth, which made him look very serious, as though he’d had a lifetime of worries.

  But when he smiled…?

  Oh Lord, when he smiled…

  Christa’s insides clenched, and she strongly suspected she wasn’t going to get anymore poker played that evening, because there was no way she could concentrate with a man who looked like that, and still hope to win.

  “We’re in the middle of a hand, Prince,” growled Merrell. “Ante’s ten.”

  The newcomer nodded serenely as he reached for his wallet in the breast pocket of his impeccable suit. “Do carry on, gentlemen,” he said, pulling out a bill.

  His wallet was stuffed.

  Well, his name was Prince. He dressed like one, and his wallet seemed to agree with the name as well.

  Hmm. Maybe I could force myself to concentrate if that amount of blunt is on the line.

  If only she could convince her stomach to unknot, and her heart to slow down.

  And then he shot her another grin, a conspiratorial grin between two spectators of this last hand, and Christa knew she was out of luck.

  It was good to be back home.

  Now that his son was back in his life, holidays were something to look forward to once more for Andrew Prince, so he’d made sure to leave New York in plenty of time to enjoy the season in Everland. He had returned too late to call on his family at the new Zapato-Prince orphanage in the center of town, but tomorrow would be soon enough. For now, he would enjoy a few glasses of his favorite scotch—which the bartender kept especially for him—and a hand or four of poker.

  The Gruff brothers weren’t his favorite companions, but Max DeVille always made him laugh, and the new man at the table meant new stories.

  Max grinned good-naturedly as he tossed down two cards. “Chris, this is Andrew Prince, our local millionaire. Andrew, this is Chris O’Hare, a newcomer to town.”

  Stretching his legs out under the table, Andrew nodded politely to the other man. “Welcome, Mr. O’Hare. Strong Irish name, eh? My people hail from Scotland ourselves. My cousin is in charge of the family holding back home.”

  And was doing a piss-poor job of finding someone to manage the ancestral timber and engraving businesses Prince Armory relied on.

  Chris O’Hare kept his eyes firmly on the cards being tossed into the pot but hummed and nodded in response.

  Andrew tried again. “How long are you in town for?”

  Finally, the other man flicked a glance Andrew’s way, and he caught a flash of pale gray under long lashes. Andrew found himself frowning, leaning forward in his chair, looking closer for…what?

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be here,” O’Hare said. “Might be heading out tomorrow, might stick around a little longer.”

  There was something about the man which made Andrew’s hackles rise. Everyone else at the table—even boorish Merrell and Terrell Gruff—had removed their hats when they’d sat, eith
er slinging them down their backs or placing them on the green baize as Andrew himself had done. But O’Hare still wore his, pulled low over his hair, which was an indeterminate color, cropped above his shoulders and pulled back with a piece of twine.

  He was sitting slouched in a poncho with a Mexican weave, and it was impossible to tell if he was carrying a gun underneath the shapeless garment. Andrew recognized the significance of the poncho because his son occasionally wore one in deference to the culture of the people who’d raised him. But O’Hare was Irish, not Mexican, and his hands…

  Well, now that he was done playing, O’Hare had dropped his hands into his lap, and Andrew couldn’t pinpoint what it was about them which had struck him as strange.

  Frowning, Andrew realized he’d sat forward to study the other man and forced himself to relax.

  You’re here to enjoy yourself, remember?

  “So how was New York City?” Max asked, mid-play, pulling Andrew’s attention away from O’Hare.

  His lips tugged upward ruefully. Max had the ability to chat while playing, something Andrew himself had never mastered.

  On the other hand, he had enough money even losing steadily at the poker tables wouldn’t hurt him.

  “Just as dirty and stinking as it was last time I visited. You know,” Andrew said, settling back in his chair and accepting the bottle of scotch from the bartender with a grateful nod, “I didn’t use to think there was anything wrong with the city. I grew up there. I built my empire there.”

  “And then you came out here and got to see what real beauty was,” Max tossed out with a grin, as he laid out his winning hand.

  As Merrell cursed and tossed down his hand, Andrew had to nod. “Indeed. I would’ve never known about this gem if I hadn’t come out looking for Michael—Micah. And now that I’ve been here, I can’t seem to shake the place.” Almost against his will, he glanced at O’Hare, who was nodding thoughtfully. “Do you agree, Mr. O’Hare?”

  Obviously startled to be addressed so directly, the other man lowered his chin. “It is real pretty around these parts; prettier than most cities I’ve been.”

  Andrew grinned. “It’s almost as pretty as the Highlands of Scotland, and that’s saying something.”

  “To hell with all these niceties,” growled Merrell Gruff. “I’ve lost enough money to you bunch.” He glared at O’Hare, and Andrew wondered what kind of poker player the stranger was. “I’m going upstairs to have my turn at one of the ladies.”

  Beside him, Terrell obligingly nodded, tossed down his own cards, then stood up from the table.

  As they bid their goodbyes and watched the brothers head for the stairs, Max leaned forward. In a low tone, he confided to the stranger, “They’re triplets, but I’ve long suspected they all share one brain.”

  To give him credit, O’Hare snorted with laughter, then peeked up toward the balcony, his pale eyes flashing in the light of the gas lamps, and chuckled again. Andrew found himself smiling along as well, pleased—for some reason—to know the stranger wasn’t as shy as he’d at first suspected.

  “Well, Max, Mr. O’Hare…”—Andrew leaned forward once more and began gathering the cards—“I assume you don’t mind another game?”

  They settled into a rhythm, and he found himself watching O’Hare, curious for more signs of whatever had triggered Andrew’s senses in the first place. There was nothing obvious, but there was just something about the way the stranger held himself, the way he moved…

  Andrew had lost almost a hundred dollars to the man, and still couldn’t pinpoint it.

  Max, as always, kept the conversation light and interesting. The young man had a rare ability to make everyone feel welcome and at home, which is likely why he was so popular in Everland.

  At that moment, he was chattering on about the thoroughbred breeding program he and one of Everland’s other denizens—Dmitri Volkov—had started several years ago.

  “We’re doing just fine, and my initial investment has made me more than enough dough to get out from under my father’s thumb.” He shrugged, frowning down at his cards. “But I’m not particularly useful anymore.”

  “Wasn’t your ‘initial investment’ a mere two mares?” Andrew pointed out. The program was built on the horses’ breeding capacity, which would indeed render Max useless.

  The younger man heard the context and shot Andrew a grin. “They were important mares though.”

  “I’m sure they were. Dealer takes two. O’Hare?”

  The stranger indicated he wanted three, but seemed just as interested in the conversation as he was the game.

  “You ever feel that way, Andrew? Like you’re just sitting on your thumbs?”

  A sarcastic laugh burst out of him. “Good God, no. I thought my job would get easier as I got older, and in some ways it has. Now that I have a competent manager at the Armory, and there’s such good communication between New York and Everland, I can spend more time here with my family.” With a sigh, Andrew matched Max’s bet without bothering to consider his cards. “But it seems there are other decisions which only I can make, and now—again thanks to the telegraph—I have no choice but to make them.”

  Like that damned engraving smithy, where every little issue got sent to him, half a world away.

  Max hummed in commiseration, and when O’Hare easily won that hand, Andrew suspected neither of them were playing particularly well that evening.

  The playing did continue, however, and Andrew tried to concentrate. Max made them both laugh a time or two, and he found himself watching the stranger when he chuckled. There was still something off about the man Andrew couldn’t pinpoint. Max didn’t seem to notice; he was his usual friendly self.

  It wasn’t until the next time to deal came around to O’Hare and Andrew focused on his hands. The stranger’s hands were lithe and graceful as he flicked the cards across the table, and Andrew suddenly sucked in a gasp.

  Before O’Hare could react, Andrew had lunged across the table and grabbed the stranger’s wrist.

  In a poker game, even a friendly one, such a move could be tantamount to an accusation of cheating, so it was no wonder Max tentatively said, “Andrew? Something we should know?”

  Instead of answering though, Andrew met O’Hare’s eyes and saw the fear in their pale depths.

  Fear?

  He was hiding something, Andrew was certain.

  His gaze dropped back down to the hand he was holding. O’Hare tugged, but Andrew didn’t release him. Instead, he turned O’Hare’s hand over so he could see his palm.

  O’Hare tugged again, and Andrew allowed himself to glance at the wrist of the dirty shirt the stranger wore, a cursory check for hidden cards. He didn’t actually think O’Hare was cheating; he was just better than Max, and Andrew wasn’t able to focus well tonight.

  No, he wasn’t looking for hidden cards; he was looking for calluses.

  O’Hare’s palm and fingers were smooth. Andrew resisted the urge to skim his own fingers along the skin to double check. The stranger hadn’t done any physical labor to create calluses, which was certainly odd. It was possible he’d spent a lifetime gambling, but then, if that were the case, why was he dressed as a fieldhand or cowboy?

  The smooth hands, the poncho, the way the stranger sat, and most importantly, the way the stranger moved…it hit Andrew all at once, and his grin was slow, certain.

  O’Hare was a woman.

  “What did you say your name was?” He didn’t let her answer. “Chris? What’s Chris short for?”

  She tugged again, her eyes going wide, and this time, he let her go, but kept his gaze on her, still amused.

  “Christopher?” he prodded.

  When she realized he wasn’t going to drop the subject, her tongue darted out over her lips. “Just—just Chris.”

  Andrew hummed in a way which told both his companions he didn’t believe her, and Max shifted in his seat.

  “Andrew?” he questioned.

  And Andrew, taking
pity on her, shook his head. “My apologies, gentlemen. The trip has made me weary. One more game?”

  The way her shoulders slouched as she exhaled showed her relief he was willing to keep her secret. Is that what she thought? Well, it was true; he’d not reveal her to Max, but Andrew had no intention of forgetting what he now knew.

  She kept her eyes on him as she hesitantly reached for the cards again. “One more game,” she agreed, and now that he was listening for it, he recognized her husky voice as a woman lowering her tone. She wasn’t young, but she wasn’t old either.

  Andrew suddenly realized he’d very much like to know all about his enigmatic poker companion.

  But after the game was over—she’d folded early, likely as a way to escape—she stacked up her chips, pocketed the cash from the pot, and stood. Offering a quick nod to both of them, during which Andrew noticed she avoided his eyes, she then headed for the door.

  Amused, he watched her leave, noticing the tell-tale sway of her hips she couldn’t quite hide. Or could he only see it because he was looking for it? Max didn’t seem to notice though.

  “Everything alright, Andrew?” he asked, reaching for a glass to pour himself some scotch.

  Grinning, Andrew nodded his head and toasted the younger man. “Just fine.” Except the most intriguing person he’d met in a long while had just walked out of the building, and he wasn’t certain he’d see her again. “Is Mr. O’Hare staying in town? I’d like the chance to play against him again.”

  Max shrugged as he sniffed the liquor. “He said maybe. I’d like a chance to recoup my losses too.”

  Is that what Max assumed Andrew meant? Well, let him think that.

  Lifting his glass to his lips, Andrew’s attention drifted back to the door.

  Before she left Everland, Andrew was determined he’d track her down again.

  Chapter 2

  Number thirteen Perrault Street looked fairly normal, where “normal” was a relative term in Everland. It had as many wooden curlicues and fiddly bits around the eaves as every other building in town—which, despite being a little silly, made the whole place look like a Bavarian village—but was painted a garish purple.