The Honour-Bound Gambler. Lisa Plumley
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no place was that good. No person was that good. Hell, even that mousy woman with her armful of coats and her downcast gaze probably had scandalous secrets to tell.
Cade simply needed to look closer. If he did, he knew he’d find the bad behavior he expected—and along with it, the inevitable wagering that he hoped would lead him to the elusive Percy Whittier—professional gambler, runaway family man and odds-on favorite to win the upcoming private faro tournament.
Unless, of course, Cade got to Whittier first.
And that’s exactly what he’d promised to do.
Another circuit of the Grand Fair later, after a few informative chats, some flirting and a bolt of whiskey, Cade found it: his first proper game of chance in Morrow Creek.
It was time to get to work.
Sliding in place between a dandified farmer—whose Saturday night shirt couldn’t disguise the grime of Friday’s labor—and a soberly dressed minister, Cade flexed his fingers. He offered his most charming smile. Then he hoped like hell his unlucky streak was at an end, because he needed a win.
Chapter Two
As typically happened at parties, Violet found herself at the spinsters’ table in short order. She’d already made the rounds of the gala’s volunteer helpers, offering her assistance wherever it was needed. She’d sat in with a fiddle for one of the musicians’ simpler songs at the horn player’s urgings. She’d also earned hearty laughs among the members of the ladies’ auxiliary club with her anecdotes about baking apple-spice jumbles as her contribution to the Grand Fair bake sale. Now she was earnestly engaged in boosting the spirits of her fellow wallflowers. She simply couldn’t stand seeing anyone unhappy.
“Even if we don’t do any dancing tonight,” Violet was telling the women nearest her, “that doesn’t mean we have to abandon the notion of fun altogether! The evening is still young. Besides, I’m having a wonderful time talking with you!”
The town’s most outspoken widow, Mrs. Sunley, snorted over her glass of mescal. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Benson. But I’d prefer to trot around in the arms of a handsome young buck.”
Everyone tittered. Mrs. Sunley typically spoke her mind, sometimes to the point of impropriety. Privately, Violet admired her for it—and for her enviable sense of independence, too. Most likely, her own future would be similar to Mrs. Sunley’s, Violet knew—save the aforesaid marriage to begin it, of course.
“That would be delightful, Mrs. Sunley,” Violet agreed, “if there were any handsome new ‘young bucks’ here in town.”
“Oh! But there is a handsome new man in town!” one of the wallflowers said. “We were talking about him earlier!”
At that, everyone launched into a spirited dissertation of the mystery man’s rugged good looks, sophisticated suit and rakish air of je ne sais quoi. One woman described his smile (“It made me dizzy! I swear it did!”); another rhapsodized over his masculine demeanor (“My brother, Big Horace, looked like a wee girl standing next to him!”); a third waxed lyrical about his elegant manners (“Yes! He bowed to me, just like a gentleman in a Harper’s Weekly story! I almost swooned on the spot!”).
“I think he must be here for the private faro tournament,” one woman confided in hushed tones. “I heard from my Oscar that all the finest sporting men are coming to town to participate.”
Everyone nodded in approbation. Out West, professional gamblers were accorded a great deal of respect, especially when they were winning. Even Jack Murphy, one of Morrow Creek’s most reputable citizens, employed professional sporting men to run the tables at his saloon.
“I’ll bet he’s a big winner!” someone said, still prattling on about the mysterious stranger. “He certainly looked it, with that self-assured air he had. And those eyes!”
The women all sighed with romantic delight. Even curmudgeonly Mrs. Sunley fluttered her fan in a coquettish fashion. The gossip went on, but Violet couldn’t help laughing.
“Gambler or not, no man is that fascinating,” she insisted. “In my experience, men are usually clumsy, smelly, unable to properly choose their own neckties and in dire need of moral rehabilitation—which my father is always happy to provide.”
“You’ve been meeting all the wrong men,” a friend said.
“Or all the right ones,” Mrs. Sunley put in with a knowing grin. “The most interesting men need a little reforming.”
Tactfully, no one mentioned that it didn’t matter which men Violet met. With a few notable and short-term exceptions, most men hadn’t seen her as a potential sweetheart; instead, they’d usually approached her for an introduction to the beautiful Adeline Wilson. Now that Adeline was officially engaged to Clayton Davis, even that role had become obsolete.
As everyone belatedly pondered that dismal realization, silence fell. All the wallflowers exchanged embarrassed glances. Violet studied her still-tapping toes, wishing she didn’t make people feel so awkward. Another friend cleared her throat.
“Speaking of moral rehabilitation,” she said into the uncomfortable silence, evidently hoping to end it quickly, “where could I find your father? I have something to discuss with him. I saw him earlier, but he seems to have disappeared.”
“He has?” Newly concerned, Violet bit her lip. All thoughts of the dazzling, wholly unlikely new mystery man—and her own unpopularity with such men—were forgotten. At an event like this one, chockablock with wheels of fortune, raffle tickets and—undoubtedly—backroom wagering, there was only one place Reverend Benson would likely be found. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him,” she told her friend. “I’ll ask him to speak with you straightaway.”
Then, scarcely waiting for her friend to acknowledge her offer, Violet excused herself from the wallflowers’ circle. She suddenly had a mission more important than consoling her fellow nondancing, non-sought-after companions: finding her father before he did something foolish.
Cade was down almost three hundred dollars when the first of his gambling companions quit. In disgust, the man hurled down his cards. His chair scraped back. “You keep ’em. I’m out.”
The other men at the table protested. Cade did not. After a little conversation, a little gambling and much careful observation, he knew the man’s retreat had been inevitable. Like the grubby farmer and the soft-handed minister who remained at the table, the man had been in over his head. All the same, Cade had the good sense and the good manners to keep his gaze fixed on the baize-covered table, tabulating the money in the kitty.
His unlucky streak had not yet ended. Nothing less than an impressive win would get him invited to the private, high-stakes faro tables where he expected to find Percy Whittier and to make him pay for his sins. With so much at stake, Cade couldn’t relax. He couldn’t quit. He couldn’t fold. He could only focus on the game with the same taut intensity he always employed.
The departing man opened the back room’s door. The lively sounds of the Grand Fair’s music and dancing swept inside. So did the earthy, aromatic scent of Kentucky’s finest tobacco.
Nostrils flaring, Cade looked up.
He knew that blend. Its fragrance was melded with his earliest memories. It was forever tied to loneliness and loss…and to questions he’d never been able to find the answers to.
It was the signature blend smoked by Percy Whittier.
Frozen in place, Cade stared blindly at his cards. Could he be this lucky? He’d believed the rumor had been true. He’d believed Whittier was in Morrow Creek; otherwise, Cade wouldn’t have come there, with or without Simon Blackhouse’s aid. But to find Whittier by chance this way, tonight…
It defied the odds laid in by even the most hopeful gambler. And