The Wrangler (14 page)

A bald man smelling faintly of skunk looked him up and down. "Sure, why not. As long as you got the gold."

He nodded, hunkered down and waited to be dealt in.

"I spotted you a while ago moseying into Louie's saloon." The bald fella's friend returned the deck to the table. "We had a wager going on how long it'd take you to shoot up the place or hold it up. We all lost that bet."

"Sorry. I'm not an outlaw." He checked his cards before laying them face down on the scarred table.

"Me, either." The old, bald guy signaled for two more cards, tossed two away. "I prefer the cards. Never saw the draw of shooting folks for a living."

"Me, either," agreed a man with a missing front tooth. "I believe in the integrity of the law."

"Yer a lawyer, Vince." A tall cowboy knuckled back his Stetson, his cards tucked in one hand. "That's sort of being a legal outlaw."

"It can be," Vince agreed. "I've known lawyers like that."

Dakota arched a brow. On second thought, maybe this wasn't the best table, but at least the stakes were low. He'd like to avoid any gun battles if "Howie" started on a winning streak. Most folks didn't get too worked up over a nickel ante.

When it was his turn, he tossed five pennies in the pot and added a nickel. Still in the game, he waited while the bald fellow bailed out and the plump guy debated. Dakota slid his gaze across the bar to check on Kit.

Looked like trouble had found her. Why wasn't he surprised? When his turn came, he shook his head, tossed his cards on the table and pushed back his chair.

"No, Moe, I'm sorry. I wasn't aware of the unpaid tab." Kit slumped on her bar stool, a sign of resignation. "How much did he owe you?"

"Twenty-two dollars and twelve cents." The burly, saloon owner loomed over her, fists clenched, jaw bunched, radiating anger. "I tole Hubert he wasn't welcome here until he paid his bill. That I'd take it outta his hide if I had to. You're his kin, the same goes for you."

"I don't have that much money right now." Kit reached in her trouser pocket, fished around and produced a silver dollar. "Here's your first payment. Now I owe you twenty dollars and twelve cents."

"Are you joking?" The man bristled, looking ready to throw a punch. "I don't tolerate that kind of smart mouthed attitude in my establishment."

"I was only trying to make a payment." She plunked the coin onto the bar. "Any reasonable businessman would be happy with something rather than nothing."

"City boy, I didn't say I was reasonable."

Kit opened her mouth as if she was trying to come up with a retort, but nothing happened.

Dakota grasped Kit's elbow, nearly lifting her from the bar stool. "You'll get your money, barkeep. Just not now."

The owner sized him up and decided he was outmatched, and his face reddened. "Now I'm watching you, Outlaw. I won't forget this."

"Neither will I." He steered Kit protectively in the direction of the table, aware the entire room had silenced. Gamblers, cowpokes, wanted men and business men all watched as Dakota pulled out a chair for the city boy.

Force of habit, since she was a woman. He dropped into his chair. "Hope you don't mind if Howie joins us."

"Howie?" The bald guy knocked back a swallow from his whiskey bottle. "I heard ya was in town. Must've missed ya at Louie's place the other night. That's a damn shame. Me and Hubert played cards all the time."

"Is that right?" Kit, her voice deep, plopped her tankard down on the table and swaggered into the empty chair.

"Hubert was a true cardsharp, no doubt." The skinny dealer shuffled the cards, once, twice, three times. "When he was on a streak, I'd never seen the like."

"That's Hubert." Kit counted out five pennies and tossed them into the center of the table.

Dakota dug out a nickel and did the same.

"Your brother was a good man." The man short a tooth tipped his hat. "It's a helluva pleasure to meet ya, Howie. I'm Vince."

"I'm Baldy." The bald old man tossed in his ante.

"Zeb." The tall cowboy nodded once in greeting.

"Skinny." The dealer flicked cards across the table in a fast, practiced blur. "Word has it you beat Tannen fair and square. It's been all over town."

"I got a lucky hand." She tucked her final card into place. "Tannen got all het up over nothing."

"He does that." Vince grimaced when he looked at his cards. "Happens with him all the time. It's why I don't play him."

"That's right. We ain't high enough stakes fer Tannen." Baldy reached for his bottle. "Even if we was, we wouldn't want nuthin' to do with 'im."

"That's the plain truth." Skinny took a long swig on his bottle, too. "Tannen don't play fair."

As the game progressed, Dakota kept an eye on Kit. He had to admit she knew what she was doing. Careful bets, guarded expression, no tells, at least none that he could spot right off.

"Call." Baldy slapped down his cards, slurring a bit. "A pair a tens."

"A lousy pair of threes." Zeb reached for his empty tankard. "Whatcha got, Howie?"

"Ah, sorry." Reluctant, she spread her winning cards on the table for all to see, a royal flush, the winning hand. "Just luck."

"Hey, no need to apologize." Baldy gave a nod of respect. "You got Hubert's luck with cards. It's a gift."

"I grew up playing with him." She reached for the pot. "He couldn't spend a night at home without breaking out a deck of cards."

"I learnt a few things playing with him." Zeb pushed away from the table and grabbed his empty tankard. "I'm goin' for a refill. You boys want anything?"

"Ssend over another bottle," Baldy slurred. "Skinny's lookin' like he's in need of one, too."

"I surely am."

"How about you, Howie? You ain't touched yer tankard." Zeb eyed her thoughtfully, as if she didn't quite measure up to manly standards. "I've been watchin'."

Hadn't Dakota told her to pretend to drink? "Sorry, I forgot."

"Well, drink up, City Boy. Outlaw, how about you?"

"No, and I'm out." His elbow bumped hers when he pushed his chair back. His impressive six feet only made him look more rugged. Not one man—outlaw or not—could compare. Only she knew how tender he could be. What had happened in his life to make him tough? When he retreated to the bar, men moved out of his way.

"Didn't Hubert teach you how to drink, too?" Skinny asked, dealing another hand. "Zeb's right. You ain't touched that tankard. I can't trust a man who don't drink."

"Well, luckily I'm not one of those men." She grabbed the tankard, pressed her top lip against the rim and tipped. Warm froth bathed her upper lip. She pretended to swallow and plunked the glass back on the table.

"That's more like it!" Vince slapped her back, man-style, nearly knocking her into the table. "You'll fit in with us real fine, Howie."

"A toast to Howie!" Baldy roared, held up his bottle and drained the last few inches of whiskey in one long pull.

"To Howie!" Skinny toasted her and polished off his bottle. He burped, lurching in his chair.

"The serving gal will be right over," Zeb informed then as he dropped into his chair. "Yer gettin' too drunk, Skinny. I'd better deal. Now ante up, men."

She dug through her pile of money for a nickel and threw it in. Her upper lip itched.

"Howdy there, you handsome fellas." A woman about Kit's age sidled up to the table with a tray balanced on one hand. She wore a bright red chemise. Her cleavage spilled up generously.

I could be doing that for a living, Kit thought. "Hello, Penelope." Baldy smiled. "Yer a sight for sore eyes bringin' me that whiskey."

"Like I could forget." The woman's smile was politely friendly, but her eyes looked sad. "Here's yours, Vince. Saw you were getting low."

"Mighty kind of you." Vince nodded, dropping a handful of coins as a tip on her tray.

"This tankard must be yours." After setting down Zeb's tankard, Penelope circled the table toward Kit. "I hear you're Hubert's brother."

"Yes—" Kit cleared her throat. What did she call a saloon girl? "Ma'am?"

"And as polite as Hubert, too." The shadows in her eyes vanished as she set down the drink. "Hubert was always kind to me. He said I was his daughter's age, and always treated me right."

"He was that way." An arrow of loss pierced her deep. She grabbed a few coins from her winnings and dropped them on the tray. "Good to meet you."

"You boys holler if you need anything. It's a busy night, and we're a server short, but I'll come as soon as I can." The woman's gaze narrowed, traveled down Kit's face and lingered on her upper lip. She discreetly patted her own lip.

Come to think of it, the right half of her mustache wasn't itching. Probably because it had come loose.

Oops.

Chapter Eleven

She clapped her hand to her mouth. Good thing no one else had noticed, or she'd never be able to play in this town again. She'd be laughed out of the saloon.

"Are ya chokin' there, Howie?" Vince pounded her on the back. "Not much of a drinker, are ya?"

"Nope, not me." If she pressed hard enough, would the mustache stay stuck? There was only one way to find out.

"That'z okay, young man." Baldy wobbled in his chair. "Ain't no shame in it. Not ever' man kin hold his licker."

"It takes yearsa practice." Skinny bobbed his head, his eyelids drooping. "Lotza hard work."

"That's it," Zeb agreed. "Here's to hard work."

"I'll drrrink to that," Baldy agreed, upending his bottle.

While the men drank, she gave her mustache a test. It seemed to be holding up. She let out a breath of relief and caught Dakota at the bar, biting his lower lip, trying not to laugh. Why did the man have to look that good? For once, the shadows had left his eyes, shadows that he'd likely never tell her about. She couldn’t imagine him opening up to her that much.

"Howie." Vince cut into her thoughts. "Aren't you gonna look at your cards?"

"What? Right." How had she let Dakota invade her mind completely? He'd blocked out every sound in the saloon and even the game in front of her. She glanced at her cards, tossed one out, tucked a new one in. It was a terrible hand. Couldn't be worse.

She dropped coins in the pot, the focus of her attention on the man at the bar. She wanted to brush away the tangle of his dark hair and see his eyes, so she could try to read him more easily. His face was hard, set tough, emphasizing the high slash of his cheekbones and the unyielding angle of his jaw. His presence radiated nobility and strength.

A longing rose within her. How foolish was that? In spite of what she knew about most men, and even with what she'd been through with her pa and all the men who'd been like him, still her heart quickened.

"Howie, are ya in or out?" Skinny interrupted. "Lookit the poor fella."

"Two swallows 'n he'z drrrunk." Baldy's bottle hit the table with a clunk. "Yer bad fer our reputation, son."

"I, uh, don't like the taste." That was true enough. She tossed in a nickel and dime.

"Thatz all right, young fella." Skinny looked at her with compassion. "We'll still be friendz with ya. As long as ya don't start drinkin' sarsaparilla."

She caught Dakota's smirk. Fine, he'd heard that, had he? Was he enjoying himself? Was she entertaining him? A spark of humor softened his proud features, making him look almost young. Emotion yanked in her chest, and she turned her attention to the game in time to toss in two quarters.

"Too rich for me," Vince commented, tossing his cards down.

"Me, too." Baldy conceded. "Look at Howie. Mussst have a great hand."

Kit shrugged. She could no longer pretend she didn't know what she felt for Dakota. It had become too bright, too overwhelming. Something nudged her arm, intruding into her thoughts. "What?"

"Seventy-five cents." Skinny gestured toward the pot glinting in the lamplight. "Are you still in?"

"I'm in." She counted out the coins and an extra quarter. "I'll raise you twenty-five."

"A buck." Zeb apparently was the only one in the game now, his face stone, and his eyes glinting with excitement.

"A buck and a quarter." She plunked down the money, Dakota centered in her line of sight. If any man had to get through her defenses, why did it have to be him?

"A buck fifty," Zeb called out.

"A buck seventy-five." A memory welled up, against her will, of Dakota's lips brushing her temple, a tender kiss she could not forget. Did he remember, too?

"Two bucks and I call." Zeb laid down his cards. He had a pair of queens.

She showed her hand. Nothing. She'd lost because she hadn't been paying attention.

She hung her head.
That's
what a man did to a woman—distracted her, made her think that he was important and before you knew it he'd become her entire world. But men were an unstable foundation to build your future on. She was too smart for that.

Now she had to make her heart understand it.

 * * *

"No, fellas, sorry. I've got to call it a night." Kit's voice, low and deep, lifted above the grumbling din of the saloon. Dakota watched as she whipped a clean white handkerchief out of her pocket, dumped her winnings into it and neatly tied up the ends.

"Hey, you cain't leave with all our money." Skinny winked, slumped in his chair.

"I didn't take all of it." She swaggered out of her chair—she was getting better at moving like a man—but he could see the woman in her. It was all he could see. "Zeb and Baldy, you both had good winning streaks."

"I'm on a rrrroll," Baldy agreed, anteing up for the next hand.

"We'll save a spot for you next time." Vince nodded a farewell. "Good to have Hubert's brother playing with us."

"It is," Zeb agreed.

"G'night, young fella." Skinny waved. "Don't ferget ta come Saturday."

"There'll be a big tournament with some folks from Gold Dust City," Vince explained. "You could win big."

Kit said her farewells in a manly fashion and headed his way through the saloon. A curl escaped from beneath her Stetson, slipping across her ivory forehead. He fought his instinct to brush it back, kept his hands to himself and watched it fall against her cheek.