The Honour-Bound Gambler. Lisa Plumley

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СКАЧАТЬ been meeting all the wrong men,” a friend said.

      “Or all the right ones,” Mrs. Sunley put in with a knowing grin. “The most interesting men need a little reforming.”

      Tactfully, no one mentioned that it didn’t matter which men Violet met. With a few notable and short-term exceptions, most men hadn’t seen her as a potential sweetheart; instead, they’d usually approached her for an introduction to the beautiful Adeline Wilson. Now that Adeline was officially engaged to Clayton Davis, even that role had become obsolete.

      As everyone belatedly pondered that dismal realization, silence fell. All the wallflowers exchanged embarrassed glances. Violet studied her still-tapping toes, wishing she didn’t make people feel so awkward. Another friend cleared her throat.

      “Speaking of moral rehabilitation,” she said into the uncomfortable silence, evidently hoping to end it quickly, “where could I find your father? I have something to discuss with him. I saw him earlier, but he seems to have disappeared.”

      “He has?” Newly concerned, Violet bit her lip. All thoughts of the dazzling, wholly unlikely new mystery man—and her own unpopularity with such men—were forgotten. At an event like this one, chockablock with wheels of fortune, raffle tickets and—undoubtedly—backroom wagering, there was only one place Reverend Benson would likely be found. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him,” she told her friend. “I’ll ask him to speak with you straightaway.”

      Then, scarcely waiting for her friend to acknowledge her offer, Violet excused herself from the wallflowers’ circle. She suddenly had a mission more important than consoling her fellow nondancing, non-sought-after companions: finding her father before he did something foolish.

      Cade was down almost three hundred dollars when the first of his gambling companions quit. In disgust, the man hurled down his cards. His chair scraped back. “You keep ’em. I’m out.”

      The other men at the table protested. Cade did not. After a little conversation, a little gambling and much careful observation, he knew the man’s retreat had been inevitable. Like the grubby farmer and the soft-handed minister who remained at the table, the man had been in over his head. All the same, Cade had the good sense and the good manners to keep his gaze fixed on the baize-covered table, tabulating the money in the kitty.

      His unlucky streak had not yet ended. Nothing less than an impressive win would get him invited to the private, high-stakes faro tables where he expected to find Percy Whittier and to make him pay for his sins. With so much at stake, Cade couldn’t relax. He couldn’t quit. He couldn’t fold. He could only focus on the game with the same taut intensity he always employed.

      The departing man opened the back room’s door. The lively sounds of the Grand Fair’s music and dancing swept inside. So did the earthy, aromatic scent of Kentucky’s finest tobacco.

      Nostrils flaring, Cade looked up.

      He knew that blend. Its fragrance was melded with his earliest memories. It was forever tied to loneliness and loss…and to questions he’d never been able to find the answers to.

      It was the signature blend smoked by Percy Whittier.

      Frozen in place, Cade stared blindly at his cards. Could he be this lucky? He’d believed the rumor had been true. He’d believed Whittier was in Morrow Creek; otherwise, Cade wouldn’t have come there, with or without Simon Blackhouse’s aid. But to find Whittier by chance this way, tonight…

      It defied the odds laid in by even the most hopeful gambler. And Cade had never been hopeful.

      Hope was for people who fooled themselves into forgetting the truth: that life was short, fickle and cruel. More than anyone, Cade knew better than to put his faith in long odds. Doubtless, he told himself as he went on studying his hand, many men smoked that particular Kentucky blend, not just Whittier.

      An instant later, a burst of raucous fiddle music restored his usual sense of purpose. What was he doing just sitting there?

      Anyone looking at him would have thought Cade didn’t really want to find Whittier. The notion was daft. He might not be hopeful, Cade reminded himself, but he was determined. He’d made promises to Judah. He intended to keep them or die trying.

      “I’m out, too.” Heart pounding, Cade made himself stand. He schooled his face in an impassive expression, needing to hide the damnably naive hopefulness he felt. The answers he needed felt tantalizingly close. “Night, all. Good luck, Reverend.”

      Startled, the minister glanced up. He couldn’t have known that Cade had already taken pity on his foolish wagering and slipped him an “improving” card when everyone else had been watching their easily defeated companion leave the game. But Cade knew it. He hoped the minister took the boon and quit, too. Otherwise, the way he’d been wagering, he’d lose for sure.

      Cade hadn’t wanted to let that happen. Not because the minister was a holy man; Cade didn’t have much use for preaching. But according to their chin-wagging, the widowed minister had a daughter—as it happened, the same mousy woman who’d tossed away her dance card—and Cade hadn’t wanted the man’s family to pay for his witlessness.

      Giving the minister that improving card had meant setting back his own game, Cade knew. But he’d had faith he could regain his edge. The hapless holy man didn’t have the same advantage.

      The door creaked. Through the slowly narrowing gap in the doorway, Cade glimpsed swirls of dancers, a wisp of smoke…and the profile of a cigar-smoking man. Was it really Whittier?

      Cade couldn’t be certain. In Omaha, he’d spooked Whittier with a too-aggressive pursuit. He’d lost him for weeks. Now Cade had to be smarter. Otherwise, he might ruin his advantage.

      As far as he knew, Whittier didn’t know Cade was still in pursuit of him. Cade meant to keep it that way…until he caught up altogether.

      “Don’t forget our weekly game at the Lorndorff!” one of the men called from behind him. “We can always use one more man.”

      “’Specially a losing man!” Another yokel gambler guffawed.

      Too intent to argue with their wrongheaded assessment of his skills, Cade raised his hand in acknowledgment of their invitation. It wasn’t quite the wagering offer he needed, but he reckoned it was a start. From here, word of his ability would travel upward to the elite circuit and eventually—he hoped—garner him an invitation to those sought-after tables.

      Decisively, Cade slipped into the giddy fray of the Grand Fair. He was almost close enough, he saw, to identify Whittier for certain. With only a faded tintype and his own hazy memory to go on, it was hard to tell. But the smell of the man’s distinctive tobacco blend tantalized Cade with its nearness.

      He needed a plan. The moment he saw the minister’s daughter—no longer burdened with overcoats—determinedly on her way to the back room, Cade hit upon one. This time, he would keep his distance from Whittier until the moment was right. This time, he would be smart. This time, he would win.

      In the meantime, he had to get a little closer. So…

      “There you are!” Smiling, Cade pulled the woman into his arms, keeping Whittier in sight. “You’re missing our dance!”

      “Oh no I’m not!” the woman said. “I’d never miss a dance!”

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