The Marker
THE MARKER
MEGGAN CONNORS
SOUL MATE PUBLISHING
New York
THE MARKER
Copyright©2011
MEGGAN CONNORS
Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Published in the United States of America by
Soul Mate Publishing
P.O. Box 24
Macedon, New York, 14502
ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-057-1
ISBN-10: 1-61935-057-2
www.SoulMatePublishing.com
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
To Marcus—my husband, my biggest fan,
my cheerleader, and the one great love of my life.
Marrying you is still the best decision I ever made.
First and foremost, I’d like to thank my husband for his unwavering support—and for letting me permanently “borrow” his laptop for my writing!
For understanding my long nights on the computer, and being good sports about our trips to Old Sacramento, I’d like to thank my children. I love you both.
For being my first (outside) reader, her continued support, and for being an all around great friend, thank you, Carrie Stilwell Hass. You’re the best friend a girl could ever hope to have!
Also, thank you to Laura DeSimone, Nicole Papke, and Erin Rix, who encouraged me when I first decided to begin this journey!
Without the helpful and understanding staff of the Sacramento Train Museum, this book would not have been possible. It’s a great place to spend an afternoon, and any errors in the research are mine and mine alone.
And lastly, words cannot express my gratitude to Deborah Gilbert and the team at Soul Mate Publishing for taking a chance on a debut author.
Sacramento, California
Summer 1874
Nicholas Wetherby threw back his whiskey in a single swallow. He hadn’t touched his cards since he had first looked at them, casually raising bets as other players placed them. Recognizing Nicholas’s betting patterns as those of a man with a remarkable hand, the other players at the table folded, one after the other. All except one.
Idly twirling a silver dollar between his fingers, Nicholas leaned back in his chair, hooked his arm over the back and studied the last remaining a player, John Markland. Markland was a man who had been perpetually down on his luck since the death of his wife, and any good sense he may have once had must have died with her. Only an improbable run of good fortune brought Markland to this particular table, and he played like a man possessed. Nicholas had once heard he lived more or less hand-to-mouth in a seedy part of town with his daughter, and the stack of cash in front of him would keep him in food and booze for a good month. If the man had any common sense left, he wouldn’t push his luck—he would fold this hand, gather his winnings, and count both his cash and his blessings.
“How much you got, Markland?” he asked.
Tobacco smoke clung to the air as Markland mashed the end of his cigar between his teeth. Making a show of counting his money, he said, “Ninety.”
Still not looking back at his cards, Nicholas tossed in a hundred dollars. A part of him expected Markland to fold over the casual way he placed his bet, as if he didn’t care about the sum of money being wagered. And, in fact, he didn’t.
“Well, that ought to cover it.”
The desperate greed lighting his eyes poorly disguised, Markland stared at the cash in front of him. The problem with Markland was that he lacked both the fortitude and the skill to earn his money, so he had to win it. Pity he wasn’t even very good at that.
Nicholas despised men like him. But then, Nicholas despised just about everyone these days.
“I’ll sign over the house to you if you go all in, Wetherby.”
Nicholas chuckled, but it felt hollow in his gut. “I’m sure it’s mortgaged for more than it’s worth. I think not.”
He didn’t want anything Markland had to offer, but at least the betting was getting interesting. The familiar rush accompanying a big win caught his attention and pierced through the languor that had been dogging him for months. Ever since the death of his brother almost a year before, no amount of drink or women seemed to be able to fill the void in his life, though a big win at poker at least piqued his interest for a time.
“I’ll give you my watch,” Markland said, fishing into his pocket. “It’s pure gold.”
Nicholas eyed the banged-up trinket his opponent dangled in front of him, acting like a street vendor hawking ‘genuine diamonds’ or some cure-all elixir. As if he would want such a piece of junk. Nicholas almost wished the man had more pride.
Almost.
“I have a pocket watch, and I don’t need another,” Nicholas replied, swiftly losing interest in the betting and wanting to move on to the next hand. “Just call with the ninety and let’s be done with this. Except for the cash in front of you, you have nothing I want.”
Markland fidgeted in his seat and tapped his index finger nervously on the worn, green felt of the card table. His eyes shifted from Nicholas to Nicholas’s money, and over at the bar. “A moment, Wetherby,” he said, holding up his hand. “Barkeep!” he shouted to the man standing behind the gleaming mahogany bar. When he turned in their direction, Markland said, “Bourbon whiskey, for me and my new friend here. The ‘48, if you would.”
“Going for the good stuff, I see.”
“Nothing but the best for me and my friends,” Markland said, raising a glass in a toast.
Never one to turn down a free drink—especially not one as good as the ‘48—Nicholas nodded his thanks, replied, “Indeed,” and drained his glass. He placed it on the table with heavy thud and said, “Just call.”
“No, wait!” Markland cried. “My daughter! If I lose, I’ll give you my daughter!”
An audible gasp went up around the table. Nicholas leaned back in his seat and laughed, thinking Markland must be jesting. “You would wager your daughter?”
“She’s a rare beauty. She’d even please a man such as yourself. A goodly, moral woman.”
It took Nicholas a moment to realize Markland was
serious,
willing to wager his daughter over a hand of poker. Astonishment and raw excitement pulsed in his veins, and he laughed, enjoying the thrill and secretly expecting Markland to withdraw his bet.
“I’m not overly interested in goodly, moral women. They have very little to offer me,” Nicholas returned, laughing at his own joke. Calling the older man’s obvious bluff, he asked, “What precisely are you proposing?”
Markland wiped sweat from his brow and suggested, “She could work in your household. I’m telling you, she’s a rare prize.”
The nervous voice, the perspiration, and the erratic betting all told Nicholas he had his opponent exactly where he wanted him. “Smacks of desperation to me, Markland,” he said with a smirk. “I’d bet this ‘rare prize’ looks and acts like a harpy. Thank you, no. Let’s just finish this. I bet, and you have nothing left to raise my wager. Show me your hand.”
“No!” Markland insisted. “I’m telling you, she has skin like porcelain, the temperament of an angel, and a voice to match. She is a beauty, I tell you.”
Nicholas was just drunk enough to enjoy the desperation, and this was by far the most interesting thing he had been involved in for months. He almost pitied the poor girl. It was bad enough being the daughter of John Markland, a man who clearly lived above his means despite the recession gripping California, but now her father offered her up as a marker in a card game. Markland would leave the girl destitute.
Nicholas leaned forward in his seat and regarded the older man for long moments. With a sigh, he finally checked his cards and pondered his options. He should never accept Markland’s offer—if he were an honorable sort, he wouldn’t—but he couldn’t help the rush of excitement that accompanied the thought of accepting. He would win the girl, keep her for a short while, and return her unscathed to her father. Hopefully, in that space of time, Markland would learn his lesson and would give up the game at least for a time. Sure, if Nicholas took her, scandal would result, but he never been one to shy away from gossip. Nicholas didn’t want the girl—he had plenty of female companionship and the last thing he needed was a hysterical woman in his household.
But watching Markland fall would at least be entertaining.
The shadow under which he had lived for the past year lifted a little as he considered Markland’s offer. Why not see how far Markland would take this? It wasn’t like Nicholas was responsible for the girl—or the actions of her father.
So why did he have this strange tightness in his chest and an odd twinge of pity for a girl he’d never met? What Markland proposed was preposterous. Insane. Unfortunately, Nicholas was just drunk enough, and reckless enough, to accept.
“Fine, but I want a contract drawn up.”
Low murmurs went around the table as men spoke of the wager in shocked, hushed tones. Markland glanced at them uneasily, and Nicholas thought he would back down at the mention of a contract. Instead, after a moment’s trepidation, his eyes rested on the stack of cash in front of Nicholas and his face lit up. The man obviously believed he had this game won.
“Of course,” he answered, his voice reedy with anticipation. “I expect no less.”
Oh, this was going to be fun
. “So, what, precisely, are your terms?”
Markland shrugged and chewed thoughtfully on the end of a cigar that would be nothing but pulp by the end of the hand. “She’d be yours, of course.”
