The Gamble (I) (38 page)

“Go t’ sleep, sprout. The excitement’s over.”

“Why would anyone wanna hurt Gussie?” he asked innocently, collaring Moose and falling back onto his pillow.

“I don’t know.”

The cat was so accustomed to sleeping with Willy that he flopped on his side with his head on the pillow as if he were human. Gandy half expected Moose to yawn and pat his mouth.

“It’s b’cause o’ the probe-isshun comin’, ain’t it?”

“I reckon it is, son.”

“What’re you gonna do when you can’t sell whiskey no more?”

“Anymore,”
Gandy corrected absently, scarcely aware that he’d picked up Gussie’s habit of correcting the boy. Briefly, he rested a hand on Willy’s head. “Go back t’ Miz’sippi, probably.”

“But... well, couldn’t you be a blacksmith or somethin’? Eddie’s pa, he fixes harnesses. Maybe you could do that; then you could stay here.”

Gandy covered Willy and tucked the blankets around his chin.

“We’ll see. Don’t fuss about it, y’ hear? We’ve got time t’ decide. The law won’t take effect for a few months yet.”

“All right.”

Scott began to rise.

“But, Scotty?”

The tall, lanky man settled back down on the edge of the narrow cot. “You forgot t’ kiss me good-night.”

Leaning to touch his lips to Willy’s, Scott tried to hold
his emotions at bay, but the thought of kissing him goodbye for the last time tore at Gandy’s innards. Suddenly, he clasped the boy tightly, holding him to his pounding heart for a moment, pressing his lips to the top of the short-cropped blond head. He thought of Agatha, with her face turned sharply toward the wall, her throat working. He thought of taking Willy away from her and didn’t believe he could do it. Yet, when he imagined leaving the boy behind, with Willy’s bright brown eyes filled with tears, as he knew they would be, he wasn’t sure he could do that either. He had to force himself to press Willy back down and cover him up again. He had to force his voice to remain calm. “Now go t’ sleep.”

“I will. But, Scotty?”

“What now?”

“I love you.”

A giant fist seemed to squeeze Gandy’s heart. Sweet Jesus! What a choice lay ahead. “I love you, too, sprout,” he managed to say. Just barely.

Scott Gandy and his employees had a meeting one morning in mid-November to discuss when to close the Gilded Cage and where to go next. It was decided there was no point in delaying since the flourishing business of the drive months had already been reaped. Between now and the time the law took effect, business would be slow at best, with Proffitt’s population diminished to its original two hundred. The question of where to go next left everyone staring at Gandy for an answer. He had none.

“I’ll need a little time alone t’ figure things out. Where I want t’ go, what I want t’ do. Maybe I’ll go south, where the weather is warmer, and try t’ get my thoughts together. What do y’all say to a little time off?”

They all said nothing. Seven glum faces stared blankly at him. He felt the weight of responsibility for them and momentarily resented it. Tarnation! Couldn’t they think for themselves? Would they always look to him as their savior, the one to deliver them to the next safe, profitable port? But the fact was, he felt dejected, too. The Gilded Cage was scarcely taking in enough to support eight people, and it
was important that he preserve a big enough lump of cash to start them out again in a new place. So why should he feel guilty about needing a little time away from them, asking them to fend for themselves awhile?

“Well, it’d only be until the first of the year or so. Then I’ll pick a spot where y’all can wire me and I’ll wire back and tell you where we’ll be settlin’ next and exactly when to come.”

Still nobody said anything.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Sure, Scotty,” Ivory answered flatly. “That sounds good.” Then, hearing his own lack of enthusiasm, he put on a false brightness.

“Doesn’t that sound good, y’all?”

They murmured agreement, but the moroseness remained. It was left to Scott to feign enthusiasm.

“All right, then.” He slapped the green baize tabletop and stretched to his feet. “No sense in hangin’ around this dead little cow town any longer. Whenever you’re packed and ready t’ leave, y’all go ahead. I’ll put the buildin’ up for sale immediately.”

“What about the sprout?” Jack inquired.

Scott did a good job of concealing his anxiety over the subject of Willy. “Agatha and I have t’ talk about that yet. But don’t worry. He won’t be abandoned.”

Quite the opposite. The sprout had two people who wanted him, and they’d put off discussing the subject as long as possible. But it could no longer be avoided.

For no good reason he could name, Gandy went upstairs to his office and penned a note to Agatha, then asked Willy to take it to her and wait for an answer.

Willy stared at the note as Scott held it out. “But that’s dumb. Why don’t you just go over there an’ talk t’ her?”

“Because I’m busy.”

“You ain’t busy! Heck, you’ve been—”

“I thought Agatha taught you not to say
ain’t!
Now, will y’ take the note, or won’t you?” he demanded more sharply than he’d intended.

Willy’s expression dissolved into one of dismay over the unearned scolding from his hero.

“Sure, Scotty,” he answered meekly and headed for the door.

“And put on your new jacket. How many times do I have t’ tell you not t’ run up and down the stairs in the cold without it?”

“But it’s down in my room.”

“Well, what’s it doin’ down there? It’s winter, boy!”

Mollified, yet further confused, Willy looked back at Scott with brown eyes that glistened. “I’ll put it on before I come back up.”

When he was gone, Scott fell heavily into his chair, then sat staring out the window at the snow, smitten by guilt for having been so curt with Willy. After all, it wasn’t the boy’s fault the saloon had to close, nor that he and Agatha were at this impasse.

Downstairs, Willy found Gussie in the workroom, pedaling on the sewing machine.

“Hi, Gussie. Scotty says t’ give you this.” He handed her the note.

The rhythmic rattle of the machinery slowed and the flywheel stopped spinning. Agatha’s eyes dropped to the paper and a sense of foreboding flashed through her.
No, not yet,
she thought.
Please, not yet.

“Thank you, Willy.”

Willy tipped onto the sides of his boots and jammed his fists into the pockets of the new warm winter jacket Scott had bought him. “He says t’ wait for an answer.” While she read the message, Willy grumbled, “Garsh, how come he’s so grumpy lately?”

A flood of dread hit her as she completed reading the message. It was the eventuality she’d known was inescapable. Yet all the mental preparation in the world couldn’t make it less painful. She came out of a lapse to hear Willy saying her name.

“I’m sorry. What, dear?”

“Why’s Scotty so grumpy lately?”

“Grumpy? Is he?”

“Well, he talks like he’s mad all the time when I never done nothin’ wrong.”

“Did anything wrong,”
she corrected. “And adults get
that way sometimes. I’m sure Scott doesn’t mean to be grumpy to you. He has a lot on his mind since the prohibition amendment passed.”

“Yeah, well...”

She fondled the side of Willy’s head, then ordered gently, “Tell Scott yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

“That all?”

“That’s all. Just yes.”

When he clumped out with none of his usual verve, she studied the back door and tried to imagine life without him bubbling in and out. She fully understood why Scott was grumpy lately. She herself was experiencing sleepless nights and worried days.

Drawing a deep, shaky breath, she reread the message:

Dear Agatha,

We must talk. Would you come to the saloon just after closing tonight? We won’t be disturbed there.

Scott

Willy advanced cautiously as far as Scott’s office door, but no farther. His chin thrust out belligerently.

“Gussie says yes.”

Scott turned in his swivel chair and felt a catch in his heart. “Come here, sprout,” he ordered softly.

“Why?” Willy’d been burned once this morning. Once was enough.

Scott held out a hand. “Come here.”

Willy came reluctantly, wearing a scowl. He moved around the corner of Scott’s desk and stood just beyond reach, dropping his gaze to the hand that still waited, palm up.

“Closer,” Scott said. “I can’t reach y’.”

Willy stood his ground stubbornly, but finally laid his stubby hand in Gandy’s long one. “I’m sorry, Willy. I made y’ feel bad, didn’t I?” He pulled the boy close, then hauled him up onto his lap and tilted his chair back.

Willy snuggled against Scott’s chest with obvious relief.

“I wasn’t mad at you, y’ know that, don’t you?” Gandy asked in a husky voice.

“Then how come you yelled?” Willy asked plaintively, his cheek pressed against Scotty’s vest.

“I’ve got no excuse. I was wrong, that’s all. Can we be friends again?”

“I guess so.”

Willy’s blond head fit snugly beneath Scott’s chin. His small body in the thick woolen jacket felt warm and welcome, with one hand pressed trustingly against Scott’s chest. The pair of short legs dangled loosely against the long ones, and even that slight pressure felt welcome to Scott.

Peace settled over the two of them. Outside, snow fell. In the small iron stove a cozy fire burned. Scott propped a boot on an open drawer and indolently rocked the swivel chair until the spring set up a faint noise. He found Willy’s fine hair with his fingers and combed it up from his nape again and again.

After a long time, when their hearts had eased, the man asked, “You ever think about livin’ somewhere else?”

“Where?” Willy remained as before, savoring the feel of Scott’s fingernails gently scraping his skull, sending goose bumps throughout his body.

“Someplace where there’s no snow.”

“I like snow,” Willy returned sleepily.

“You know what a plantation is?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It’s like a farm. A big farm. Y’ think you’d be happy livin’ on a farm?”

“I dunno. Would you be there?”

“Yes.”

“Would Gussie be there, too?”

Scott’s fingers and the chair paused for only a second, then began their soothing rhythm again.

“No.”

“Then I don’t wanna go t’ no farm. I want us t’ stay here, together.”

If only it were that simple, sprout.
Scott closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the reassuring weight of Willy stretched along his trunk. He was loath to move, to break the sweet
contentment they’d found together. But he felt a twinge of guilt for asking Willy about his wishes, as if asking the boy to make a choice against Agatha. He hadn’t intended it that way at all. He realized it would be the perfect time to tell Willy the Gilded Cage would be closing soon and all of them would be leaving town. But he hadn’t the heart at the moment, and he thought it best if he and Gussie broke the news to Willy together.

“Sprout?”

When Willy didn’t answer, Scott pulled his chin back and looked down. Willy was sound asleep, his head sagging low against Scott’s chest. Gently, he picked him up, carried him into the sitting room, and laid him on the settee, then stood studying him for a moment: the long dark lashes lying against the fair cheeks; the soft, vulnerable mouth; the skinny neck hidden within the scratchy wool jacket that had worked up nearly to Willy’s ears.

Sprout,
Gandy thought wistfully,
we both love you. Will you believe that when this is over?

Scott was the only one in the saloon when Agatha entered by the rear door shortly before midnight that night. He sat at one of the green-topped tables, slouched negligently in his chair with one boot crossed over a knee, one elbow hitched on the table edge beside a whiskey bottle and an empty glass. Mechanically, he flipped cards at his upturned Stetson on a nearby chair. Five in a row hit their mark.

The only lamp burning in the place was a single murky coal-oil lantern directly above the table. It threw a pale smudge of light onto the top of his head and gave his eyes an obsidian glitter. Agatha halted at the end of the short hall.

Between cards, his glance flicked to her. “Come in, Miz Downin’,” he drawled in a voice so low it scarcely carried across the room.
Flip. Flip.
Two more in the hat. She threw a cautious glance at Willy’s closed door. “Oh, don’t worry about the sprout. He’s asleep.”
Flip. Flip.

She advanced to the edge of the circle of light and paused with her hands on the back of the battered captain’s chair like the one in which Gandy slouched.

“Sit down,” he invited without rising.

She cast a glance at the cards still sailing toward the hat.

“Oh, sorry.” With a cold grin he stretched to pick up the Stetson from the chair, scooped out the cards, then settled the familiar flat-crowned hat low over his eyes, casting them into complete shadow. His apology held not
the slightest hint of contrition as he squared the deck and clapped it down beside the bottle.

She perched on the chair at his right, edgy because of his uncustomary arrogant manner.

“You wanted to talk to me.”

“Wanted?” he bit out wryly. “Neither of us
wanted
t’ have this conversation, did we?”

“Scott, you’ve been drinking.”

He glanced ruefully at the bottle. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”

She grasped the bottle, sniffed its contents, made a disgusted face, and forcefully set it aside. “Rotgut!”

“Hardly. For this conversation I chose the best.” He refilled his glass, then hefted the bottle her way. “Join me?”

“No, thank you,” she replied tartly.

“Oh, of course not.” He clunked the bottle down. “I forgot. Y’all don’t touch the stuff, do y’?”

His drawl was very pronounced tonight. She’d thought at first he was drunk, but she realized now he was decidedly sober, which made his defiant attitude all the more distasteful. She stiffened and brought her chin up.

“If it’s Willy you’ve brought me here to talk about, don’t think you’re going to cow me by brandishing your bottle in my face. I won’t have it. Do you understand?” Her pale eyes snapped and her lips thinned with resolve. “We’ll discuss it sensibly, without rancor,
and
without alcohol—or not at all.”