Wild Card. Susan Amarillas
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another round of encouragement and back slapping.
She was trapped. If she did this, she’d be out of a job. If she didn’t, she’d be branded as unfair or worse by those watching and her chance of playing cards in this town would be over before she got started.
This wasn’t fair, not when her luck had just changed. A quick look around at the faces all staring at her told her she didn’t have a choice.
“Okay.” She relented, adjusting her skirt, the light catching on the satin and making it dance in shades of fiery red. “Two hands.” She figured she’d try to placate him. Absently she traced a long, curving gouge in the tabletop.
“Five,” Bill countered,. his mouth pulled down in a grim expression that said he was determined.
Clair straightened. Her gaze flicked from one intent face to another, then back to Bill. “What is this, an auction? Two hands and then I’m done for the night.” She wanted out, and she figured a couple of hands wouldn’t get her into too much trouble.
“Five.” Bill’s tone was adamant.
Apprehension circled in Clair’s brain. “Five,” she reluctantly agreed. If she could keep the bets small, they could get this over with quickly. “Win or lose, that’s all. Right, Bill?”
Bill’s brown eyes widened with excitement. “Five.” His head bobbed up and down like a pump handle and he was already reaching for the deck of cards. “Five.”
“Show her, Bill,” a wide-faced cowboy in a black Stetson prodded.
Thanks a lot, she thought but didn’t say. She didn’t object to Bill dealing-in fact, she preferred it. There’d be no arguments later about her cheating.
She beat him three out of four, and she guessed she was up about twenty dollars, though she never counted her money at the table.
He kept looking around at all those frowning male companions, the ones he’d been so arrogant in front of, the ones who were never going to let him live this down. Never mind that most of them had also lost at least a few dollars to Ctair—at least they’d been smart enough not to make a public spectacle of the losing.
“All right, Bill, last hand—right?” It was an order, not a question. She shifted in the chair, the wood rough against her bare skin above her dress. That acid in her stomach was swirling with tornado force. One more hand and she was out of this. Twenty dollars didn’t seem so bad—surely he’d understand tomorrow.
Yes he might, but she knew these men wouldn’t. Bill would be the talk of the town for months, and not pleasant talk, either.
He dealt the cards, five to each of them. Clair took a quick peek, careful not to reveal them to the onlookers, then put them facedown on the table again, her fingers lightly resting on the stiff paper.
Bill took a long gulp of whiskey, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his throat with each swallow, then slammed the bottle down with a bang on the table. “Bet fifty.”
If the man had said “Bet a thousand” she couldn’t have been any more surprised. “Five-dollar limit,” she told him emphatically. She was so close to getting out of this reasonably unscathed.
“My saloon. My rules,” he countered. “Fifty.” Those ogling cowboys all got openmouthed quiet. They crowded the table as though Bill was serving a free lunch and they didn’t want to miss their share. They pressed in so tightly she was actually bent forward, a belt buckle cutting into the base of her neck.
“Hey! Watch it!” she snapped, twisting and pushing the man back with the flat of her hand against his chest.
“Sorry,” he, at least, had the good grace to mutter, though if he moved it was so fractional she could hardly tell.
Shaking her head, she turned and counted out the fifty dollars, which was a hell of a wager in any man’s game.
“Cards?” Bill barked, the deck dwarfed in his big, clumsy hands.
Clair kept her gaze focused on his face. “I’ll play these.”
He hesitated the barest fraction of a second, .his whiskey-hazed eyes honing in on hers. She never flinched, never looked away.
Finally he said, “I’ll get one.” He slapped the card down on the others with a force that threatened to tear the paper. Cautiously, like a man looking under a rock for a rattler, he picked up the cards and fanned them out. She knew the instant he got to that draw card. Something—excitement—flashed in his eyes. She had seen it often enough in men’s faces.
So, she thought, he’d drawn whatever card it was he was wishing for. She figured he either had a straight, probably jack high, or four of a kind—couldn’t be higher than tens.
He straightened in the chair and squared his shoulders beneath his stained white shirt. “A hundred.”
“A hundred! Are you crazy?” She eyed that nearly empty bottle of whiskey. He was drunk as hell, that was for sure. “Now look, I—”
“What’s the matter? Ain’t up for a real game?” he mocked, and several cowboys laughed. The man was practically preening, he was so damned pleased with himself.
A leather-faced cowboy spoke up. “That’s it, Bill. You’ve got her on the run now.” There was more backslapping and grinning.
But Bill’s smile melted faster than ice in summer when he looked down at his money. It was obvious he didn’t have anywhere near a hundred dollars—thank goodness.
“You seem to be a little light there,” she observed, thinking a hundred would clean her out if she lost.
Bill took another slug of liquid courage and said, “I’ll just git the damned money.” He lurched to his feet, swayed and grabbed the shoulder of a plaid-shirted man for support. “Watch my cards,” he commanded, and several men nodded with all the solemnity of being asked to guard the bank vault.
Clair watched Bill make his way to the bar. She had to give the man credit—he walked as straight a line as any man in the place, a hell of a thing considering the amount of whiskey he’d consumed.
She looked around, her eyes stinging from the smoke-filled room. “Look, Bill, we could—”
“Never mind,” he pronounced. “I’ll git the money.”
What could she do? She shook her head and waited while he banged around behind the bar. Maybe he wouldn’t find the money. There hadn’t been that much business tonight and—
“This’ll do it!” he exclaimed, returning to the table.
So much for playing out a lucky streak.
“Okay.” He plunked a piece of paper down with the flat of his hand. “This ‘ere is the deed to the Scarlet Lady. I’m puttin’ her up for the...money.”
For about five seconds you could have heard a pin drop in the place. Clair didn’t believe her ears.
“I don’t want your saloon,” she told him.
“She’s worth a hundred,” he countered in a tone that brooked no challenge.
“I’m sure she is, but—”
Then everyone started talking at once.
“You can take her, Bill.”
“Wait till word gets out.”
“Wait till Slocum hears.”
Clair didn’t care about Slocum or male pride or anything else. Things kept going from bad to worse. Where was all that luck she’d been so sure of only a few hours ago? All she wanted was to sit here and play a few friendly hands of poker. This wasn’t fair. “I don’t want your saloon.”
Bill drained the last of the whiskey from the bottle and put it slowly but firmly down on the table. “If you can’t