An Agent for Camille

by Parker J Cole

  CHAPTER SIX

  “This fella’s sure got a strange name, dontcha think, Crawley?” The man everyone called Pinky, short and rotund man with thick lips and a double chin, leaned back in his chair. “Ain’t never heard of it before.”

  Rounder threw two chips into the pile in the center of the table. “You gonna talk or ya gonna play?”

  Pinky let out a rusty laugh, his chins jigging against the tight collar of his throat. He pushed back his sweat stained hat from his forehead. “Fella with a name like that…sounds strange.”

  Rounder had questions of his own as he peered through the cigar smoke wafting around the table. The man’s middle finger was missing so why on earth did everyone call him Pinky? A moment later, Rounder silently answered his own question: what would you call a man missing his middle finger? Unfortunate?

  “Go ahead and make yer play, Pinky.” Crawley, the man sitting directly across from him, turned and spat tobacco juice into the nearby spittoon. “We ain’t got all day.” A shank of hair fell across his right eye, obscuring it. A long, ragged scar ran down the side of his face, bisecting his left eyebrow.

  “Aw, Crawley, we got all the time in the world.” Pinky tossed two chips into the pot. “Ain’t like we got nothin’ else to do but wait. Sticks got family here, don’t he?”

  “Shut up and play, Pinky.”

  “All right, all right. Call.”

  The obvious dissatisfaction in Pinky’s tone gave credence to Rounder’s suspicions. These ruffians were indeed holed up here in Lantern for a specific reason. And what was it about Sticks having family here?

  “Whatever Crawley sez, goes, Pinky. Ya got that?”

  That would be Larry, one of the twins the sheriff had mentioned. Larry had a copious amount of hair. Barry didn’t.

  “Simmer down, Larry.” Pinky snorted. “I ain’t bein’ disrespectful. We all know Crawley’s the smart one here.” Rounder noted a look pass between him and Crawley. “What you gonna do?”

  Larry grumbled incoherently as he tossed two chips to the growing pile.

  Pinky shook his head and then jutted his chin out in the direction of the silent man by Larry’s side. “Sticks, what ya got?”

  The tall, skinny man folded. More than once, Rounder saw the man’s gaze wander over to the saloon girls that sashayed back and forth. Nothing in his expression revealed much but the intensity of his regard made Rounder remember Honor’s warning. He was glad he’d made Camille promise to not show up here.

  It didn’t take much to know that these ruffians were predators. Of all the men at the table, Sticks had the potential to be the most lethal. How Rounder knew that, he wasn’t quite sure, but his instincts screamed to keep a close eye on the silent man.

  “Barry,” Crawley drawled.

  “I gots me a good hand here so I’m raisin’ ya.” Barry threw four chips and then another, a little smile twisting his lip. Unlike his brother who hadn’t smiled in the entire time they’d play the game, Barry smiled as if they were all apart of some jest.

  “What kinda name is Rounder, anyway?”

  He glanced over at Pinky who was staring at him. “The kind I got.”

  Larry laughed, a high-pitched pig’s squeal that made Rounder want to reach over and stuff cloth down his throat. “Whew, boy. Dat was funny.”

  “I’ve seen you around town, Rounder.” Crawley’s mouth worked around the tobacco locked against his cheek. “I gotta say, been wonderin’ what a man like you doin’ in a place like this.”

  Rounder fiddled with the chips in his hand, frowning at the pot while he thought swiftly of what he should say. He’d rather avoid lying, at least in his job.

  “Just visitin’.” He tossed five chips into the pot. “You?”

  Pinky threw another five as Crawley spit out another stream of brown juice into the spittoon. “I’m just passin’ time. Heard about the rodeo and that cash prize this town was offerin’. I figure I might as well try to get my hands on it, right?”

  “Watchin’ you flyin’ over dat horse.” Pinky shook his head. “Funniest thing ya ever seen.”

  “Heard the fever was here,” Rounder said as Larry added to the pot.

  “I don’ ever get sick.” Crawley peeked at his cards. “My mama used to say it was ‘cuz I was sick in the head.” He gestured toward him. “Whatcha got?”

  Barry won the round with four of a kind. As the man cackled like an old woman, he said, “You boys almost play as well as the doc.”

  Rounder’s ears perked up. “The doc?”

  “Yeah, Carl.” Barry gathered up his winnings. “The same. Always losin’.”

  “Carl Fremont?” He tried to probe without showing his alarm.

  “That’s him. Came down after Mrs. O’Leary’s fire ‘bout burned down the city. Real dandy-like.”

  Carl Fremont stated he was a lawyer. Why would these men refer to him as a doctor?

  Unless he really was a doctor. Which begged the question of why would a man lie about his profession? He made a mental note to contact his sources in Chicago.

  He heard the saloon doors open behind him. Not paying attention as he absorbed the information he just learned when Stick’s entire body went ramrod straight. Rounder saw an unholy gleam enter the man’s eyes. It was lust, but more than that, it was a kind of hunger which reminded him of a starving animal.

  “Well, what do we have here?”

  All the men had stopped focusing on the game and were staring behind him. A tingle of warning lifted the hairs along his neck.

  Turning to see what arrested everyone, Rounder’s mouth dropped open.

  Camille stood in the center of the room, looking unlike anything he’d ever seen. If the men in the saloon were wolves, then she personified a doe they’d all like to devour.

  His heart galloped in his chest as he took in the bright purple gown with its black trim and plunging neckline. Where had she gotten that dress? Her skin gleamed clear and smooth. What in all of heaven—

  “Hello, gentlemen.”

  She gave the occupants of the room a saucy grin, her accent making the words sultry and musical. Rounder’s mouth went dry as she prowled the room. She’d boldly loosened her hair from its bun, and it flowed down her shoulders and arms in a dark cloud.

  “I’m new and I don’t have friends to call my own,” she called out to stunned room. “Can any of you be my friend?”

  Her eyes went around the room in a seemingly artless fashion until they landed on their table. Her lips lifted in a provocative way. She’d always acted with propriety, but this temptress held the room by its bated breath. When she neared them, she deliberately met each of the men’s eyes in a frank, uninhibited way. Until they landed on him.

  “You look like you can be my friend.” Her finger reached out and drew a line down the side of his face. “What’s your name?”

  At her words, he dragged his befuddled mind out of the magical allure of her vixen appearance. In its place was rage. How could she risk her safety by coming into the saloon? Only one type of woman showed up here.

  Rounder knew he had to act and act quickly.

  “I’m Rounder. And you are?”

  She leaned forward, her golden eyes like gems. “Why don’t you call me Honey, Rounder?”

  “You bein’ real nice to Rounder over there. Why can’t you be nice to me?”

  Rounder looked over at Crawley. The man’s right eye was still obscured by his hair, but his scarred left eye raked over Camille’s form.

  With a husky laugh that sent flood of heat down his back, Camille purred, “Do you want me to be nice to you, Mister—?”

  “My friends call me Crawley.”

  Her eyelashes fluttered down. “It’s so nice to meet you, Crawley.”

  The man’s face flushed.

  Rounder felt the air of the room change. He had to get her out of here.

  Wrapping an arm around her waist, he gave what he hoped passed for an appreciate groan. “Well, if you’re going to be nic
e to me, seems I oughta least buy you a drink.”

  “I’ll buy you a drink.” Crawley leaned back in the chair, his scarred eye growing intent. “It would be my pleasure.”

  “Let me buy you a drink.” Sticks had finally spoken, his voice a rasp like metal grating against metal.

  “Looks like we got us an interestin’ situation here.” Pinky tapped the table. “You bein’ new and friendly and all, I say let’s play for it. High card wins.”

  Rounder wanted to wrap his hands around her throat. Why would she put them in this predicament? He had to make sure he put won this hand or else, any one of these men would take her.

  He could tell them she was his wife. But he dismissed the idea. If he did that, then they would wonder why a man’s wife would be visiting a place like this? Why she would pretend to be a saloon girl and offer…

  Argh!

  “Why not?” Camille shrugged with incredible ease. “But let’s make it, how do you say, a straight flush.” Her eyes touched on each man on the table. When her gaze met his, she tapped the underside of his chin. “I can’t be nice to just anybody now, can I?”

  Sticks groaned. “Let’s get this game started.”

  Rounder knew then he had to play the hand of his life.

  ***

  Camille’s stomach roiled as she leaned negligently in the chair next to Rounder. Why had she done this idiotic thing?

  It seemed a good idea at the time, despite Sheriff Patience’s warning. “Mrs. Addison, you should wait until Mr. Addison has returned. Only a certain type of woman goes into the saloon and I know you’re not one of those kinds.”

  She’d dismissed the sheriff’s warning. After all, she wasn’t a Pinkerton agent in training. Camille was! The information was vital to the case and she had to get it to Rounder in the most expedient fashion.

  In the smoke-filled saloon, surrounded by leering men and unwashed bodies, Camille hoped she wouldn’t live to regret her impetuousness.

  The man who unnerved her the most was Sticks. She stole a peek at him from under her lashes. His dark eyes locked onto her. She didn’t need to see his soul to know it was dark, whether in color or condition. It was obvious he wanted her, and she’d given him an opportunity to make that happen.

  Dear God, please let Rounder win this game.

  “I’ll raise you six,” Pinky said as he added eight chips to the pile. “Think any of you boys wanna bet?”

  Larry glanced longingly in her direction, but then sighed as he swore and folded his cards.

  “You give up too easy, brother,” Barry sneered as he added his own chips. “You not thirsty, are you?”

  Her cheeks flamed at the double meaning of the word. Rounder cut his eyes at her and she almost flinched at the fury in them. She’d put him in a terrible predicament, one that would risk their safety and their investigation. Why oh why hadn’t she thought of that before?

  Sticks, without looking at the table, added to the growing pile. Camille was glad she had no perception of his soul. Her natural senses could already tell he was no good.

  Too bad she hadn’t used common sense when she came up with this idea.

  Crawley’s hand moved snake-like with his chips. “I’m looking forward to getting that drink.”

  His soul pricked her skin like needles. Stinging needles which only sought to hurt. The color eluded her but it’s texture…if she were a woman, she’d never want to join her soul with a man like that. He’d do everything he could to hurt her and would relish the pain.

  The pile of chips had grown considerably. On some other day, it would have amused her to be worth so much money. Now, she balked at the idea she’d brought this upon herself.

  What if Rounder didn’t win?

  No, she couldn’t think that way. He had to.

  Larry was the only one who folded so when it came time to reveal the cards, Camille held her breath, all while trying to look as if it made no difference who won.

  The game seemed go on forever, as bets were made, and cards revealed. Over time, Pinky was forced to fold as the bets became too high. He’d gave her a sideways look as he conceded defeat.

  “Better luck next time I guess.”

  Over her dead body!

  Next Barry lost to Crawley’s full house. He’d rubbed his bald head and then shrugged. “Wasn’t all that interested anyway.”

  The remaining players, Crawley, Sticks, and Rounder began another round.

  She had intimated that only that man who received a straight flush would be the one to buy her a drink. Though everyone in the saloon had known it’d gone way past buying a drink to whoever won would supposedly win her for themselves. Other patrons in the saloon, as it began to get darker outside, came in and headed over to the table.

  Crawley was next to concede defeat when he lost to Sticks and Rounder’s hands.

  “Well, well, well. Wonder if Sticks will get his wish or not.”

  Camille gave him what she hoped was a sultry smile. Her stomach quivered against the tightened corset of her gown. She leaned forward and stared at the game as the cards were dealt once again with the only players being Rounder and Sticks.

  The hand was dealt, and the bets began again. The crowd surrounding the table seemed to hold their collective breath.

  Camille was sure she couldn’t even breathe.

  “I’ll raise you four more,” Rounder said, his eyes locked on Sticks.

  The skinny man refused to look away from her. “Five more.” She wanted to come out of her skin.

  Chips clinked against each other. Camille swallowed now and her hands were coated with sweat. The tension coiling within her started to erode her composure. A slight tremor took over her limbs as she knew that this hand, whatever happened, would be the one that would decide her fate.

  If Rounder didn’t win…

  “Six.”

  “Seven.”

  While the game had gone on, Sticks’ lips didn’t move. Now, he smiled. It was a strange sort of movement because it didn’t change his face as much as emphasize his inner darkness. He must have a good hand. Possibly even the winning hand.

  Rounder matched the amount, his face stony but she couldn’t let that bother her. He had to win this game.

  “Well?” Sticks’ voice, though low, carried a strange note to it.

  Rounder looked at her, his hazel eyes stormy. Camille felt her heart sink to her stomach.

  He’d lost. Her husband lost!

  Still staring at her, Rounder flipped over his cards.

  The crowd gasped.

  A straight flush.

  Sticks growled, the smile which had dominated his face melting into a snarl. “You cheatin’, connivin’ scum!”

  Rounder slowly turned his head until he met the contorted rage in Sticks. He said nothing for a moment, the silence between the two men tense and crackling. Then, in a voice she’d never heard from him before, Rounder said, “You really don’t want to challenge me right now, Sticks. You won’t like it. Honey is mine, and I’m taking her.”

  Camille blinked, feeling a myriad of emotions at the possessive aggression in his tone. Rounder sounded deadly. Across the table, Crawley laughed. “Well, well, well, looks like there may be more to ya than meets the eye, eh, Sticks?”

  Pinky pushed back from the table. “Ya better walk away from this sweet one, Sticks.” He glanced at Rounder who still stared at the infuriated skinny man. Even in profile, her husband had a terrifying look on his face. “While you cain walk away.”

  A peculiar stillness had settled over Rounder and Sticks. They were both like statutes of dry wood. Camille sensed that if either of them had spoken a single word, it would be like a single spark from a flame that would ignite into a full-fledged fire. Their bodies were on edge, poised as if waiting for that spark.

  She had gotten them both into that mess. Now she had to do something to get them out of it.

  Swiftly she stood and sat on Rounder’s lap, draping her arms around his neck. Rounder blink
ed rapidly as if coming out of a trance. His eyes focused on her and the terrible fierceness ebbed away.

  “I thought you were gonna buy me a drink,” she purred in the most seductive voice she could muster. Thank goodness she’d paid attention to Arielle all those years ago when she did the same thing to attract her many suitors.

  “I got something better in mind for you…Honey,” he added in a pointed tone. To anyone else, it sounded like a promise, but she knew it to be a threat.

  Camille’s face heated like coals, but she met his hard gaze. “Of course.”

  Pushing her off his lap, he stood, crushed her hand in his own, and regardless of the bystanders about them, walked out the saloon, trailing her behind him while she felt the heat of Sticks’ gaze burn holes in her back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Camille stood at the door to the bedroom she and Rounder shared and wondered if she should maybe just sleep in the barn.

  All the way back to the house, Rounder had remained quiet. When she said his name, he held up his hand. “Do not speak to me, Camille,” he’d commanded in a voice that brooked no argument.

  She did as he told her, too. A tear rolled down her face. Whether of sadness or relief, she didn’t know. Perhaps both.

  Red had taken one look at them upon their return and offered the use of her twin copper tubs. Cyril and Perky, for once perceptive of the strained air, kept silent. Camille ate her dinner, courtesy of Red’s excellent cooking, although she couldn’t do it much justice. Then without a word to anyone, she escaped and used the water to wash away the fright and shame that came over her.

  She took in a deep breath. Rounder would be on the other side of the door. He’d want to talk about what happened. He’d unleashed the anger that he’d restrained.

  Why shouldn’t he? Her recklessness had put them both in danger.

  She bit her lip. Her sisters’ letters home detailed some of the cases they’d work on. In their letters, they told of their work, fighting against the criminal element. To her ears the life of a Pinkerton agent sounded adventurous.

  She had to face the facts. Camille wasn’t a Pinkerton agent. She’d only come to help with the case, thinking her ability to see the color of the soul would be worthy. It hadn’t done anything to help. In fact, all she’d done was put herself in a bind where she could have been hurt beyond repair.