Wild Cards and Iron Horses (12 page)

Sam let out a sigh, forcing her attention back onto the task at hand. There was no doubt that a gambler lived to play, and Jon would be challenging himself to see if he could still play and win with his handicap.

The question would be how he managed. And if he succeeded.

Jon studied the cards. This casual game was supposed to be nothing more than a dry run, checking out the local competition, seeing who was here and who wasn’t. Give him a chance to warm up, to dismiss the worries about his brace and the allure of Miss Samantha Weatherly from his mind.

It was rapidly turning into a disaster.

David Tannetum was here, the blond, dashing gentleman spending as much time flirting with the girls gathered around the table as he spent studying his cards. Problem was, he wasn’t that good at either and was burning through his family fortune faster than one of those new steamships through the Atlantic waves.

Jon had taken more than his fair share of the man’s money and was grateful every time he sat down across from the eager young man.

Yet Tannetum was winning, and it was more than just a few lucky hands.

Jon studied his cards again. Three jacks. More than enough to take this pot. More than enough to stop the fiscal bleeding.

A minute later, he stared at Tannetum’s hands as they scooped the silver and gold coins away, depleting his own stack almost to the point of irreversible damage.

This was not good. Usually the playboy gave away his hand easily, blinking wildly if he had anything useful after the first draw. An obvious tell, one of the first ones Jon’d learnt and had seen in a hundred faces in a thousand games, usually with new players who couldn’t hide their excitement. Yet he hadn’t been able to win a hand so far despite studying the youngster’s face intently. Either the kid had somehow figured out how he gave away his cards, or Jon just couldn’t see it anymore.

Either option was a potential disaster. If he couldn’t read Tannetum, he’d never make it past the first round of the Ridge Rocket Stakes.

Harry “Doggie” Drummond puffed on his cigar. “You’re having a rough time of it, Handleston.” The elderly gambler blew out a series of smoke rings, each rising towards the ceiling at a slow, leisurely rate.

His clothing was constantly out of style by at least a year or two. But Drummond never cared, choosing to go with what was most comfortable, which was why Jon never regretted sitting down at the table with him, the old man being a fun fellow to win and lose with. The smoke ring dispersed among the upper layer of smoggy air. “Does not bode well for tomorrow’s game.”

Jon scowled at him. “I’ll be fine tomorrow. You just worry about yourself.” His hand brushed against a small pile of coins, knocking them over. He bit back a curse, chewing on his lower lip.

Drummond let out a grunt. “I know a man with a steel plate in his head. Claims that it lets him communicate with those wireless places. Says he hears the races before the horses even hit the finish line and the reporters send out the results.”

Tannetum jumped at the bait, brushing away one sweet blonde woman pawing at his arm. The woman was dangerously close to undressing the young man right there at the table, eager to earn her money.

“Really?” Tannetum’s eyes were wide, the dark pupils dancing with excitement. “Really?”

The elderly man smiled and closed the trap. “He also claims that we’re all inside a hollow earth and the sky’s just the stones under someone else’s feet.”

The laughter around the table had the youngster swearing under his breath, his face going red as the spectators enjoyed themselves at his expense. Jon smiled as well, feeling a bit of the tension lifting from his shoulders. He still had plenty of money. He still had time before the actual tournament started. He still had to make another visit to Sam Weatherly. The last thought brought a smile to his face, lifting the last dark clouds from his mind.

His fingers tapped the scarred wooden tabletop, beating out a military rhythm that had the other players shifting in their chairs, eager for the hunt.

“You fellows want to play or just tell tales?”

An hour later he was up on his original investment, but just barely. Drummond’s mouth twitched around the cigar, signaling his lack of a decent hand. Tannetum chewed on his lower lip, announcing he had nothing worth keeping, and the two newcomers were easy pickings. One fellow kept banging his heel against the chair leg and the other man had eyes as wide as saucers when he had something to play with.

Still, it was a less-than-auspicious beginning to his poker adventures in Prosperity Ridge.

“Seems you’re having a bit of bad luck.” The rumbling voice of Victor Morton came from behind, causing the hairs on the back of Jon’s neck to stand on edge. The bastard was guessing, fishing for information. He didn’t know how much Jon had won or lost, he was just trying to antagonize the table.

Jon didn’t turn, focusing instead on the cards in his hand. “Good to see you again, Victor. Or hear your unforgettable voice, as it were,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone. He wasn’t going to give Morton an opening, no matter how small.

Drummond chewed on his cigar, rolling it around in his mouth. He glared at the man standing by the table. “You going to sit down or just stand and stare, Morton?”

Victor grinned, sliding into an empty seat. “I think I’ll see what you boys are made of, at least for today.” He pulled a thick purse out of his waistcoat pocket and dumped a handful of coins onto the table.

“Just for fun, of course.”

“Of course,” Tannetum repeated with a smirk. The two blonde women behind him twittered in chorus.

“Always glad to see the older generation in action.”

Jon put his bad hand up to his mouth, hiding a smirk. The pup had
cojones
, that much was true.

Whether he could hold his own against Morton both in cards and attitude over time was still anyone’s guess. The kid had appeared on the circuit only a few months ago, a loose cannon that added a certain amount of randomness to the games. As long as he kept putting down the money, people would keep letting him play. But Jon knew that the minute Tannetum’s inheritance was gone he’d be thrown off the professional circuit, condemned to backwater towns trying to win enough to cover his room and board.

Five hands later, Morton was down fifty dollars, the amount spread evenly between the three professional gamblers and the one lone local player who doffed his hat and left the table with barely more than he had entered with. The man gave no indication of being irked, other than the tips of his ears turning beet red.

Drummond picked the cigar stub from his mouth and twirled it between his fingers. “Seems your luck hasn’t improved that much, Victor. Hope you do better tomorrow.” He smirked, enjoying the chance to poke the unpopular gambler. “But not much.” The elderly man turned his attention to Jon. “Shame about your hand gadget there. Bit bothersome for you to handle the cards without it, it seems.” There was no malice in his voice, only a touch of concern. He’d never been one to mock Jon or anyone else about any physical ailments or deformities.

Jon pushed his limp hand back behind the stack of coins. “I’m having it repaired. Should be fine for tomorrow’s games.” A sheepish smile broke free as he thought of Samantha Weatherly leaning over the table and working on his device. “Seems they’ve got some mighty fine mechanics out here on the frontier.”

Morton gave a snort, drawing everyone’s attention back to the pudgy gambler. “A woman.” The disapproving tone in his voice was unmistakable.

Tannetum laughed, his fingers playing with the blonde tresses of the female beside him. “I didn’t know you didn’t care for women, Victor.” He lifted a handful of hair to his face, inhaling deeply.

Morton snapped back with an answering snarl. “Don’t get started with me, child. I was playing poker when you were a scratch in your daddy’s crotch.” He rubbed his ear. “I like women just fine, thank you very much. But I like them to know their place. Not right having them fixing things up, doing a man’s work.” His eyes narrowed as he stared at Jon. “Too much of a chance of them getting hurt. Crippled.

Killed.”

Jon didn’t react, focusing on the coins. His pulse increased, jumping at the mental image of Samantha in danger. The implied threat hung in the air between the two men, even if no one else caught it.

Jon picked his words carefully, as if dealing a hand of glass playing cards. “That would be a shame if she came to any harm, I think.” He frowned as he glanced around the table. “Does anyone smell anything…odd?” Getting to his feet, Jon sniffed the air, exaggerating the movement with his hand brushing back and forth. “I do believe it’s coming from your side of the table, Victor.”

He locked eyes with the gambler, the steely blue of his own drilling into the dark brown of his opponent. “Smells like someone looking for a reason for his losing streak.”

Drummond bit down hard on his cigar, crunching between his few teeth. Tannetum let out a low whistle, lips pressed together in a mock kiss. The two showgirls on each side of Tannetum glanced at each other, a mixture of fear and excitement on their painted faces.

Morton remained seated. “In another time and place, sir, I would call you out for a duel for that comment.” The slightest touch of a Southern drawl entered his words.

Jon didn’t flinch. “In another time and place, sir, I would see you dead for threatening the life of an innocent woman.”

The standoff continued for a long minute, neither man giving an inch. Jon wondered briefly if he could outdraw Morton, if he could get to the derringer sitting in the pocket of his waistcoat before the older man could reach the weapon he surely had hidden on his person somewhere, and if he could actually pull the trigger to end another man’s life.

“Sirs,” Drummond drawled. He turned his head to the side, spitting on the floor. “I’d like to get a few more hands in before dinner, if you don’t mind.” He reached for the deck of cards sitting in the middle of the table and began to shuffle. “As my daddy used to say, crap or get off the pot.” He nodded towards Tannetum, catching the young man’s attention. “Would you mind sending one of those lovelies my way?

An old man like me needs all the encouragement I can get.”

Tannetum laughed, “Sure, Doggie. I’m not a greedy man. And my mama always taught me to share with those less fortunate than myself.” He tugged on the long blonde tresses draped over one of his shoulders. “Go be nice to the old man, hmm?”

Blowing Tannetum a kiss, the woman strode over to Drummond, waving her red feather boa. She had to be in her late twenties, the thick makeup trying to hide the tough years of living and keep her youthful.

What passed for a dress shifted on her thin body, the red fabric barely covering enough to keep her legal.

With a light peck on Drummond’s cheek, she perched on the edge of his chair, snuggling close.

Drummond let out an exaggerated weary sigh, turning his head to bury his face in the ample cleavage for a second before turning back to the game with a wide grin. “Now that I’ve been revived from the brink of death, gentlemen…shall we play a hand?”

Jon laughed and sat down, joining the rest of the spectators as the tension disappeared, snapped like a rubber band stretched too far for too long. The only one who wasn’t laughing was Victor, still growling under his breath, staring at Jon across the table.

Jon tilted his head to one side. “Toss me something sweet, Harry. Take the bad taste out of my mouth.” Victor could wait. Right now he had to focus on the game.

An hour later, Drummond rapped his knuckles on the scratched wood. “I’m done for the day, gentlemen.” Gathering the coins in front of him, he nodded to the lady beside him. She hadn’t wavered, her red boa still draped across the old man’s shoulders. “For your time, attention and luck.” After caressing a few of the dollar coins, the elderly man dropped them between the ample bosoms, letting them disappear into the darkness.

She giggled, causing the coins to jingle.

Jon rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help smiling at the outrageous flirting. The old man knew how to work a room and a woman. Rumor had it that he’d been married twice. At the same time.

Drummond got to his feet. “I’m an old man and I need my beauty sleep. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

He winked at the woman beside him. “And maybe you as well, hmm?”

Using his right hand to brush his own lowly stack of coins into a small purse held by his good hand, Jon got to his feet. He’d made a profit, but nothing to brag about. “Ladies, gentlemen, I have to follow my illustrious elder. I’ll see you tomorrow for the competition.”

Victor let out a snort. “With or without your hand?” He glanced down at the few silver dollars he had left after a last-minute losing streak, most of which had been to Jon’s benefit. “Be a pity if you had to play without it. Seems it’s your lucky charm.” The last two words were drawn out, leaving no doubt that other words were intended. The invisible rubber band snapped taut between them, yanking at Jon’s nerves.

Jon ignored him, addressing the other gamblers with a slight bow. “Good afternoon.” Moving away from the table, he drew a sharp breath, feeling the nervous pangs in his stomach increase. He couldn’t afford to play like this tomorrow. He couldn’t afford to lose any more money.

Or the exoskeleton.

His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was well into the afternoon. While Mrs. McGuire had laid out a delicious breakfast there was no way he could continue on much longer without something a bit more substantial than the pieces of beef jerky he had purchased in the saloon. Selling alcohol was their business, not food.

Pushing the purse into one pocket, he headed for the door. The few spectators left moved away from him, as they usually did. Gamblers had their own reputation about them, much like the fabled gunslingers he’d yet to see any of.

The dreary gray smog hadn’t lifted an inch since Jon had entered the saloon earlier in the day. In fact, he swore it was actually worse. A familiar sound filled the air, that of a small engine coughing and groaning.