by Bobbi Smith
“And I’ll raise you a thousand,” Steve announced in a soft low voice that had an edge of steel to it. He let his gaze sweep the table, watching the other men and gauging their reactions to his wager.
A hush fell over the spectators gathered in the backroom of the saloon where the marathon card game had been going on for hours. A thousand! Spencer had bet a thousand! A murmur of excitement ran through the crowd as they waited anxiously. They pressed in closer. The tension mounted, and their gazes fixed on the elegant, smooth Steve Spencer.
Gray-haired, fiftyish Hal Jenkins had been gambling for enough years to know when he was beaten. As he stared at Spencer and saw his cool reserve, he knew a pair of sixes wouldn’t do it. In disgust, he threw down his hand. “I’m out,” he stated flatly.
Skinny, balding, businessman Stewart Warren had been in the game since the beginning, winning some, losing more. But as he studied his hand now, he grew nervous. He glanced at Spencer and back at his cards several times before making his decision. He had two pair, fours and eights, but a thousand dollars was a lot of money. Conservative that he was, Stewart decided to cut his losses. He would fold. “Me, too.” He followed Hal’s sensible lead.
All eyes turned to the last player, Johnny Dillon. At twenty, the long-limbed, lanky young man was far younger than the others and looked to be barely shaving. Obviously nervous, his hands less than steady, he swallowed as he eyed the stone-faced Spencer. “A thousand?” he repeated in a hoarse voice.
“That’s the bet,” Steve confirmed. He was a gambler by choice and by trade. His luck coupled with skill, had always been good, and he generally came out on the winning end. Tonight, however, his luck had been not merely good, it had been great. He was five hundred ahead for the night, and if he took this hand, it would be one of his biggest wins ever. “Are you in or out?”
Uncertain, Dillon studied his cards. He held three tens, and he had the thousand dollars. The trouble was the money wasn’t his. It belonged to his brothers. He’d come to St. Louis to sell some livestock, and he had the cash receipts in his pocket. He had been using his own funds to play, but that money was now gone. If he folded his hand, he would lose everything. If he stayed in and won, he’d be a hero and they’d all be rich. Dillon eyed the pile in the center of the table, and then with the foolish bravado of the young and inexperienced, he made his decision. “I’m staying.” He pulled his bet from his pocket and added it to the pot. “And I call.”
A gasp escaped those hovering near the table. They knew Spencer was not given to bluffing. Eagerly, they waited to see what the men held.
“Full house,” Steve said as he spread his cards on the table, and Dillon stared in disbelief at the pair of kings and three jacks.
“But ...” The young man lifted wide, horrified eyes to his opponent.
Steve saw the stricken look on his face, knew he’d won, and started to gather in the pot.
“Wait.” Dillon blurted out.
For a minute, Steve actually thought he might have read him wrong and that he might have a better hand. He paused. “Let’s see your cards.”
He laid them down, and the crowd erupted. Spencer had won! His full house had beaten Dillon’s three of a kind!
Steve knew desperation when he saw it and had sympathy for the boy. He’d lost some big pots himself in his time and knew exactly how it felt. The humiliation was terrible, not to mention that you’d just lost all your money. Steve remembered how angry he’d been and how stupid he’d felt after one particularly devastating loss, and it had been then that he’d made up his first and most important rule of gambling—if you can’t afford to lose it, don’t bet it. He’d learned his lesson the hard way, and he hoped Dillon learned his today.
“Sorry, Dillon. Full house wins,” Steve told him.
Dillon continued to stare at the money Steve was pocketing. Horror filled him as he realized what he’d done. The color drained from his face. He’d lost everything—not only his money, but his brothers’ money, too!
Total embarrassment, along with fear, seared Dillon’s soul. His brothers were clean-living men. They’d never understand how he could have gambled away the money they’d worked so long and hard for, and he doubted they’d ever forgive him. He’d convinced them that he was mature enough to come to the city alone, and they’d trusted him. Dillon couldn’t bear the shame of his own stupidity. He was visibly trembling as he pushed away from the table and strode from the room without a word.
Steve was immediately enveloped by the horde, bombarded by congratulations on his expert play. It had been an honest game and he’d won fairly, and Steve headed for the bar to have a celebration drink. It had been a long night. Now it was time to relax and enjoy his winnings.
Steve remained in the bar, drinking and visiting, and it was near three in the morning before he finally made his way back to his hotel room. It seemed he had only just fallen asleep when someone knocked loudly on his door.
“Spencer! Damnit! Wake up!” an urgent voice shouted through the locked portal.
After a groggy minute or two, Steve realized it was growing light outside and dragged himself out of bed, tugged on his pants, and threw the door wide.
“George? What are you doing here?” Steve stared at the bartender from the saloon in confusion as he tried to shake off the remnants of sleep.
“Let me in, will you?” the old man asked, looking over his shoulder at the empty corridor.
Steve stepped aside. The bartender entered, and Steve closed the door. “What is it?”
“Something bad’s happened, Steve. You gotta get out of town.”
He was immediately wide awake. “What?”
“The Dillon kid? The one you won big from tonight?”
“Yeah?”
“He killed himself. Shot himself dead in his hotel room. I heard it from one of the girls.”
Steve was stunned. “For God’s sake, why?”
“The money he lost to you belonged to his brothers. The sheriff sent for them, and they’re already on their way to town. They’re a stiff-necked pair; and, they could come after you.” George’s expression was serious as he faced his friend.
“It won’t be the first time.” Steve tried to dismiss the warning.
“Listen to me. I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t smell trouble. If you value your hide, get out of St. Louis. Now.”
Steve swore. He didn’t like running, but he recognized the extent of danger from the very real concern on George’s face. “All right. I’ll leave today.”
“I’ll send you a wire. Let you know what happens. Where you plan on going?”
“I’ll head up to Kansas City. Now that the train’s through to Jefferson City, it’s not a bad trip. Besides, if Dillon’s brothers do try coming after me, they’ll probably check steamers first. If it takes them more than a day, it’ll give me enough time to lose myself in Kansas City.”
“Where’ll you stay?”
“Send the wire to the Bartlett Hotel. I’ll be able to pick it up at the desk.”
George nodded, then shook Spencer’s hand. “You take care of yourself, Steve, and keep a watch out.”
“I will. And, George?” He waited until his friend was looking at him. “Thanks for the warning.”
Annoyed by the need, Steve dressed in nondescript clothing that would not call attention to him and headed for the railroad station. He arrived in time to make the train; and, after buying his ticket, he boarded and settled in on one of the hard benches.
The car filled up quickly. Heeding George’s warning, Steve positioned himself so he could see who came on board. Though he appeared at ease, he was tense, prepared for the worst. Several farmers and a few families migrating west entered the car. A woman in mourning attended by her young son settled in on the seat across the aisle from him. Steve was relieved when the train finally left the depot. Only then was he able to relax.
As the train left the city behind, Steve stared out the window. In the early morning l
ight everything looked green and fresh. The pastoral panorama was a far cry from the tension-filled, smoke-shrouded saloon last night. He thought with sorrow of the Dillon boy. He had been young, and his death senseless.
Steve firmly believed that there was no problem so great that it was worth taking your life. Life could be miserable—and he’d had his own fair share of misery—but there was always hope that it would get better. It took courage to face the truth; but if you did, you generally made out all right. Of course the outcome wasn’t always perfect, but time and patience helped. He wished the boy had talked to him. He wished he could turn back the clock and tell the kid not to place that last bet. But it was too late. There could be no changing the past.
Steve drew a deep breath, leaned back in his seat, and closed his eyes. He had to think of a way to cover his tracks once he left the train at Jefferson City and booked passage on the steamer to complete the trip to Kansas City. If the Dillons came after him, as George surmised, they’d be looking for a man traveling alone. Steve needed a new identity. But what? A young voice interrupted his concentration.
“Hi!” The boy who’d boarded the train with his widowed mother was watching him.
“Hello.”
“Christopher, it isn’t polite to disturb other travelers.” Sarah gave the attractive stranger an apologetic smile. She knew Christopher was bored, but the less attention they drew to themselves the better. Besides, there was no telling who this man might be. Good looks didn’t mean a thing. She couldn’t trust anyone any more.
“I’m sorry,” the boy mumbled.
“It’s all right, son. You didn’t disturb me,” Steve replied kindly, his gaze resting upon the boy’s mother as he spoke. It surprised him that she was young and pretty, and he thought it a shame that she’d been widowed and left alone with a son to raise so early in her life. He knew things couldn’t be easy for her.
Christopher flashed him a wide boyish grin, then turned back in his seat. He didn’t want his Aunt Sarah to be angry with him.
Sarah was glad when he settled down. She nodded politely to Steve then returned her attention to the window and the lush Missouri countryside.
An hour passed, and Steve grew restless. He made his way to the men’s car, where he was pleased to find a card game in progress, and joined in. The bets were small, and that suited him fine. All he wanted was to pass the time of day.
Christopher, meanwhile, had watched Steve leave and wondered where he was going. Sarah, he noticed, was looking sleepy, and he grew hopeful. If she fell asleep, he would follow the stranger and take a look around the train. He behaved himself, sitting church-mouse still, until Sarah actually did doze off. Grabbing his chance and slipping quietly from their seat, Christopher sneaked down the aisle in search of his new friend. He made it to the men’s car without incident and crept inside without detection. The men concentrated on their card-playing, and Christopher peeked over the back of one of the seats to watch.
Steve had the deck, and the boy looked on in amazement as the man shuffled and dealt cards. The boy was awed by his skill and dexterity. He’d never seen anyone handle cards like that before, and he wished he could learn how to do it that well. It looked like fun. Fascinated, he lost track of time.
Sarah lurched awake with the train’s change of rhythm after one of its many stops. She stared in confusion, trying to remember where she was, and why. Reality soon intruded and—with it—panic, for Christopher was nowhere in sight. Had someone taken him from the train while she slept? Jumping up, she began a near-frantic search. She had to find him! He had to be there!
Eventually, having checked the rest of the train, Sarah approached the men’s car. So far her search had proved futile, and she was growing more and more frightened with each passing mile the train traveled. She knew women weren’t welcome in this exclusively male haven, but this was an emergency. Tradition be damned, she had to find Christopher! Desperation prodded her as she reached for the door. She paused long enough to look through the small window, and it was then that she saw him.
Sarah wasn’t sure whether to laugh in delight or cry in relief as she threw the door wide and marched inside. Her heart still pounded in her breast, and her hands still shook.
“Christopher! Thank God I’ve found you!” she said as she hurried toward him.
“Uh-oh,” Christopher mumbled, guilt assailing him as he scrambled to his feet to stand before his aunt.
Steve and the other card players looked up at the interruption, and for the first time they noticed the boy. Steve glanced from Christopher to Sarah and would have smiled at the youth’s antics if it hadn’t been for his mother’s strained expression.
“Christopher, do you have any idea what I just went through looking for you?” Sarah demanded, her voice unsteady.
Christopher had never known her to raise her voice before, and he blanched at her scolding, understanding only now what she must have thought when she awoke and found him gone. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I’m sorry, but I ...”
“You left without telling me, and I thought—”
“Don’t be too hard on him, ma’am. He was perfectly safe the whole time,” Steve interceded gently as he set his cards aside and stood up to address her. For some reason, he felt the need to reassure her that everything was all right.
Standing as close as they were, Steve was startled to discover how young she really was—and how very pretty. Her beauty was natural and unaffected, and the starkness of her dowdy mourning garb only served to enhance it. Her hair was brown; her complexion was flawless peaches and cream. He realized she couldn’t have been much more than a child herself when she’d given birth, and he found himself wondering about her. Suddenly aware of the direction his thoughts had taken, Steve clamped down on them. This delicate young woman had recently lost her husband. She deserved his full sympathy and kindness.
Sarah gazed up at the darkly-handsome man she recognized from their own train car, momentarily chagrined by his defense of Christopher. She managed a weary smile. “I know you’re right, but so much has happened to us lately.” She gathered Christopher protectively near.
“I understand, Mrs.—?”
“Johnson. Sarah Johnson. And this is Christopher.”
“It’s a pleasure, ma’am. I’m Steve Spencer.” He turned his dark gaze to the boy. “In the future, Christopher, always let your mother know where you’re going. It isn’t good to worry her. Mothers are special people. You only get one in life, and you’re lucky enough to still have yours. She deserves to be treated right.” Steve had never known his own mother. She’d died giving birth to him; and, consequently, he held mothers in high regard. But the poignancy of his words eluded him.
“Yes, sir,” Christopher answered softly, knowing how true Steve’s words were. Pain shown in his brown eyes as regret filled him. He wished his mother were still alive. He wished he’d been older and bigger and stronger. If he had been, he could have helped her when his father was mean and she wouldn’t be dead now. They’d be together, home in Philadelphia, and they’d be happy.
Sarah saw the sorrow in Christopher’s expression, and her heart ached for him. She understood the effect Steve’s words had had. “I think it’s time we went back to our car and let these gentlemen resume their play,” she said. “Mr. Spencer, it was nice meeting you.”
Sarah had started to go when she glanced back and found his gaze intent upon her. Their eyes met, and a shiver tingled through her. Time seemed suspended. Though she didn’t know why, she was suddenly very aware of him as a man. He was tall, but not too tall, and he was handsome—very. His hair was dark, his nose was straight. His mouth and jaw were firm and could have been called unyielding, but Sarah instinctively knew he laughed often. His eyes, however, were what held her so rapt. They were a beautiful hazel, and she saw a gentle, abiding kindness mirrored in their depths. Still, even though in the past—with the glaring exception of Michael—her instincts about people had generally proven accurate, sh
e didn’t dare to trust them this time. She couldn’t take any risks. They would have to remain polite strangers.
“It was nice meeting you, too, Mrs. Johnson,” Steve responded. He watched as they left the car, and he found himself wondering what had happened to her husband and what she was going to do now that she was alone.
Sarah and Christopher returned to their seats.
“I am really sorry, Aunt Sarah,” he told her miserably.
“Shh. I’m your mother, remember?” She glanced around to make sure nobody was paying attention.
He was upset at having forgotten. “Mother,” he said with emphasis, then grinned at her wickedly, his sense of humor regained. “Did you see Mr. Spencer playing cards?”
“No, dear, I didn’t. Why?”
“He’s good,” he told her with undisguised admiration for the man’s talent. “You should have seen him. He won and won! He could deal fast, too!”
As Christopher regaled her with stories of Spencer’s expertise, Sarah found herself thinking about him. She wondered how he’d come to be so good at cards. He didn’t dress like a gambler, but then she’d learned that looks could be deceiving. Staring out the window, Sarah concentrated on the journey and tried to forget about the man. Good-looking and kind though he might be, Steve Spencer could never be more than an acquaintance who’d passed time with a widow and her son on a train in the middle of the Missouri wilds.
As they neared Jefferson City, Steve dropped out of the game and returned to his seat. Most of the passengers were going all the way through to Kansas City and would transfer directly to the steamboat there. But it was in Jeff City that Spencer had to disappear, for if the Dillons managed to track him this far, they’d be looking for a lone man boarding a riverboat.
Steve cast a glance over at the Johnsons. The boy was nestled against his mother’s side, sound asleep. It was a peaceful picture. He frowned, a plan occurring to him. There was a risk involved, and, gambler that he was, Steve carefully considered all possibilities before making his decision. If anything went wrong, he courted disaster; but if it worked, it would be well worth the risk. Should he? Yes. He would take the gamble and bluff his way to success.
