Crossing the Line (5 page)

Shifting her focus from the tongs to the man that held them, Delilah asked, “So does this mean you're staying?”

Clint got up and straightened his back. He patted the stallion's side, which caused Eclipse to turn and look at him. The Darley Arabian was tired after all that restlessness, but now just looked relieved. Removing the metal sliver had allowed him to relax the muscles he'd been tensing ever since the sliver had first gotten wedged into his hoof in the first place.

“He's a tough fella,” Clint said. “It won't be long before he's ready to run some more.”

“But . . . not tonight?” Delilah asked hopefully.

“No. Not tonight.”

She giggled, clapped her hands, and even hopped up and down a few times. When she was through with that, she looked just as relieved as Eclipse. “After the way I curled your toes last night, I didn't imagine it would take so long to convince you to spend another night or two with me.”

Clint thought about trying to keep a straight face, but decided against it. “You don't need to do any convincing to get me to spend any night with you. I just wanted to know everything going on inside that pretty little head of yours.”

“Trust me,” she said with a glint in her eye, “you'll never know everything going on inside my pretty little head.”

“Fair enough. When does the tournament start?”

“In a few hours. I've already spoken to the owner, and he doesn't mind you playing at Pace's, so long as you don't start any more trouble. Between you and me, though, he knows George is to blame for what happened before. He'll still give you the evil eye when you show up, so nobody else thinks about stepping out of line.”

“You already spoke to the management, huh?” Clint asked.

She turned and hurried out of the stable. “I was just being prepared, Clint. See you there!”

Before he could scold her any more, she was gone. Then again, Clint already knew that scolding Delilah wouldn't have done any good anyhow. They'd only known each other for a day or so, which was more than enough for him to tell that she was the kind who was used to having men wrapped around her little finger. When he thought back to the night they'd spent together, Clint figured being wrapped around her wasn't such a bad thing.

“So you'll be stayin' on for a spell?”

Clint didn't see the liveryman, but recognized his voice well enough. Glancing around, he spotted the filthy, potbel lied man wandering in through a side door. “Yeah. Looks that way.”

“I'll need the fee in advance.”

“You don't think I'm good for it?”

Judging by the expression on the stableman's face, the notion of delaying payment was something completely unknown to him. Before smoke came out of his ears, he grunted, “I need it in advance. More, if you want them same greens.”

Clint walked over to the stableman while digging some money out of his pocket. As he counted out the proper sum, he asked, “Who around here could tend to my horse?”

“My place ain't good enough for ya?”

“No. I mean someone who could help me nail a shoe back on,” Clint said. “Maybe help tend to a bit of a wound.”

“Yer horse in a painful way? Maybe it'd be best to put him down and move on. I know where you can pick up a real dandy fer a good price.”

Glaring at the stableman, Clint growled, “It's nothing that bad. He just needs a new shoe and a bit of tending to one hoof.”

“Oh, is that what you were doin'?” The stableman shrugged and said, “The town doc sees to horses and people alike. He don't work on no shoes, though. I could arrange that for ya.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Ain't free, though.”

Clint made sure the stableman saw the money in his hand, but didn't hand any over. “How long will it take to get done?”

“Few days,” the stableman said with another shrug.

“How long?”

Staring at the money the way a hungry dog might drool over a steak, the stableman said, “I can probably get it done tomorrow, but it might take until the day after that. I don't know how busy Uncle Tim is.”

Clint added a few dollars to the stable fees and handed the money over. “The sooner it gets done, the more appreciative I'll be when I leave.”

Despite his dull eyes and slack jaw, the stableman had no trouble interpreting that.

The tournament was a simple affair. Each man bought in for a certain amount of chips, and losing all your chips meant it was the end of that man's chance to win. With a buy-in at only seventy-five dollars, it was also one of the cheapest tournaments Clint had ever entered. That relatively low fee, however, meant a lot more people could throw their hats into the ring. By the time the first hand was dealt, Clint figured the grand prize had grown to a fairly respectable size.

Just as Delilah had predicted, Clint was given a stern warning the moment he plunked down his entry fee. “Don't expect this back if you force me to kick you out of here again,” the barkeep said. He was the same barkeep who'd wielded the sawed-off shotgun when George had thrown his fit yesterday. Judging by the look in his eyes, he was awfully close to reaching for that shotgun again.

“I didn't start it the first time and I won't start anything this time,” Clint said. “Did you give this same speech to George?”

“No.” Nodding toward the back of the saloon, the barkeep said, “He did.”

Clint looked in that direction to find a man who seemed big enough to hold up that portion of the building on his wide shoulders. A long mustache sprouted from his upper lip like black wax dripping off his face. His crossed arms had the thickness of entwined logs. Even with those natural assets, the big man wore a double-rig holster around his waist.

Perhaps recognizing the surprised expression on Clint's face, the barkeep said, “Les had the day off when you were tossed out.”

“Seems that was my lucky day after all.”

“You got that right. You'll be playing at that table over there.”

Looking to the spot where the barkeep was pointing, he spotted a table with two empty seats. Suddenly, he saw Les straighten up to become even taller. The reason for that made itself known a second later.

“What the hell is this?” George grunted as he and two other men stomped into Pace's Emporium.

“Stay right there, George,” the barkeep said. Jabbing a finger at Clint, he said, “You. Get to your table and stay put.”

Clint held up his hands and walked away. Les watched him like a hawk until he got to his chair. Then, the big man shifted his gaze to George and watched him with just as much intensity.

Just as his backside was touching his seat, Clint was greeted by a familiar face.

“Hello again, Mister Adams,” Wendell said.

Not only was the skinny banker sitting in at another of Clint's games, but he was in the same spot to his right that he'd been at the last game. “I just can't seem to shake you,” Clint said. Before Wendell could get the wrong idea, Clint grinned and slapped the skinny man on the back. “Good luck to you.”

“Better than our last game, at least,” Wendell replied.

The first hands were to be dealt promptly at eight o'clock, which gave the men in attendance another couple of hours before the tournament got underway. That didn't stop any of the tables from starting games of their own using money from their own pockets. Indeed, those side games were exactly why so many entrants had shown up so early. More often than not, the winners at those private games made out better than the winner of the tournament. Sizing up the others at his table, Clint doubted he'd get quite so lucky.

Next to Wendell was an Irishman named Mack, who wore a dark blue suit and played the part of a professional card sharp. Mack either played the role better than he lived it or he was lying low, because his poker skills weren't overly impressive.

Sitting between Mack and Clint was a kid who had to be in his very early twenties. Just looking at his clothes, anyone might have mistaken him for a cowboy who'd wandered into Pace's for a stiff drink and the company of a pretty girl. He was a nice enough fellow, but seemed even younger the moment he opened his mouth.

“Holee smokes!” the cowboy exclaimed as he raked in a pot that sheer luck had given him. “I sure do like this game.”

There was always a chance that the act was something being put on to make the cowboy seem like less of a threat, but Clint doubted that was the case. There simply wasn't an easy way to fake such wide-eyed enthusiasm. If the cowboy wasn't much of a gambler, he at least had some good jokes to help while away the time before the tournament began.

More than once during those hands, the pot was built up well beyond what it might get to in the tournament's early stages. While Mack pulled in enough to make it worth his while to get up and leave before the tournament even started, Clint pulled in enough to make up his entry fee. From then on, it would be just a good night of poker. Of course, he would be dashing some high hopes if he took the night so lightly.

Delilah was at her faro table, doing her best to smile at her players while dealing her cards. All the while, she watched Clint carefully. He guessed she was also getting occasional reports about his progress, because her mood directly reflected his winning and losing streaks, despite the fact that they were nowhere near each other. Considering the circumstances of the way they'd met, Clint tried not to look at her too often.

About a quarter to eight, the fifth player at Clint's table took his seat between Clint and the young cowboy. Bull wore the same clothes as he had the night before, and had the same bland expression on his face.

“Evenin',” Bull said to each of the other players. If he recognized Clint or Wendell, he gave no indication.

When Clint dealt the next hand, Bull was taken aback. “Tournament ain't started yet,” Bull said.

“Sure,” Clint replied. “These are just friendly games.”

“Friendly enough to make ol' Mack rich as hell!” the cowboy chuckled.

Bull looked at his cards and immediately folded. He did the same for every hand after that until the owner of Pace's stepped up to announce the start of the tournament.

At ten o'clock, the owner of Pace's stepped up again. Clint still didn't know the man's name, but he dressed like a dandy, carried himself like a mayor, and talked like a carnival barker. While most of the men drifted toward the bar or outhouses, Clint glanced over to the faro tables. He may have felt a pull in that direction because Delilah was staring at him hard enough to burn holes through his hat.

Pace's Emporium was packed to the rafters. Apparently, the tournament was known far and wide throughout the area and attracted folks from the entire county. Delilah pointed toward one of the side doors and then said something to Carl, who sat in his usual seat beside her. Since he knew he couldn't exactly get away from her, Clint followed Delilah's direction and shoved his way through the crowd toward the side door.

It was a cool night, but not as chilly as the night before. The side door Delilah had indicated was on the opposite side of the building as the outhouses and opened into a small lot containing a few broken-down old sheds. Clint's nose was sharp enough to pick up the scent of smoked meat coming from one shed. He didn't have a chance to look into any of the others before Delilah hurried out to join him.

“So?” she asked eagerly. “How are you doing?”

“Something tells me you already know the answer to that.”

The smile on her face was almost bright enough to light up the entire lot. “I heard you were holding your own.”

“And then some.”

She clapped and hopped up and down in a way that seemed a little strange coming from a woman as tall as her. “I heard that as well! Perfect!”

“Then why call me out here?” Clint asked. “I could use a beer and maybe some food. Just staying inside would have been a better way to spend the couple of minutes they're giving us.”

“I may have heard about your wins and losses, but I'd like to hear the whole story from you. What do you think of your competition?”

“The men at my table are all right. I've already played with two of them, and neither of them has surprised me yet. The kid is lucky as hell, but that never lasts. Mack is a professional. He was lying low at the start, but he's pulled off a few tricks that could make him dangerous.”

“You think he can beat you?” Delilah asked.

Clint shrugged and replied, “Now that I know what he's capable of, I should be able to handle him.”

“Perfect.”

“Is that all? I'm still hungry.”

Delilah placed her hand flat upon Clint's chest and shoved him toward the smokehouse. “I am too. That's another reason I brought you out here.”

“Don't they serve food inside?”

“Maybe I'd like to serve you something. Call it a little inspiration for my very capable partner.” With that, Delilah unbuckled Clint's jeans, and pulled them down a bit as she lowered herself onto her knees. Before Clint could say a word, she'd reached between his legs and found his penis.

He'd been caught off guard and the cold air didn't do him any favors, but Clint felt his erection grow quickly enough. She cupped him in one hand and wrapped her lips around him so her tongue could work its magic. In a matter of seconds, he was hard as a rock and filling Delilah's mouth.

Clint could hear several voices nearby, but they were either coming from within Pace's or from the outhouses on the other side of the building. She hadn't picked a spot completely in the open, but anyone walking down the closest side street would have glimpsed one hell of a show. Perhaps that very thing got Delilah worked up. She sucked on him hungrily, grabbing his hips and working her head back and forth with growing momentum.