According to Hoyle

by Abigail Roux

  Several tense seconds later, Rose came to the door and moved out into the narrow corridor, surprisingly obedient.

  “Thank you, Marshal,” Rose murmured to Wash as he moved past him.

  Wash nodded, his hard eyes still on Flynn. “Everything okay with the shooter?” he asked Flynn coldly.

  Flynn merely nodded and took hold of Rose’s elbow. “Meet you in the morning,” he huffed, and he led Rose away.

  “Am I sensing some strain between the two of you?” Rose asked as they made their way down a small side hall and to a set of cramped stairs that would take them up to their deck. “I hope I’ve not been the cause of too much—”

  “Shut up.”

  “If I may offer some advice—”

  “I said shut up,” Flynn gritted out.

  “A man like Marshal Washington is not accustomed to being thought weak,” Rose continued, heedless of Flynn’s warnings. “Especially with the use of only one arm now, you might try showing you have more faith in him.”

  “You might try shutting your damn mouth,” Flynn snapped as they mounted the wooden stairs. “And stop trying to escape!”

  “I haven’t! Not . . . recently.”

  Flynn practically growled at the man as they came to the door of their cabin, and he gestured for him to enter first.

  “And you must admit you would have been disappointed had I not at least made one attempt.”

  “Shut up, Rose. Just get ready for bed. I’m chaining you to your damn cot tonight.”

  “That should be quite effective,” Rose said with a nod as he shrugged out of his frock coat and tossed it onto the flimsy cot. “Or I’ll just pick the cot up and take it with me when I decide to make my great escape. Perhaps it will even float.”

  Flynn fought back the urge to throttle him. He ripped his tie off and tossed it at Rose in frustration.

  It fluttered between them, and they both watched it until it landed at Rose’s feet. Rose looked up at Flynn, obviously struggling to repress a laugh as his lips twitched.

  “Don’t say a damn word,” Flynn grumbled.

  “I assure you, Marshal, I wouldn’t dare.”

  Hours later, Flynn lay in the cabin’s bunk, awake and thoughtful and restless. He wanted desperately to go knock on Wash’s door and apologize. He had taken the time to cool down and really think about what Rose had said to him. It made a certain sort of sense, loath though he was to admit it.

  He glanced over at the dark shape that was his prisoner. He appeared to be asleep, motionless and breathing evenly. But Flynn knew better. He cleared his throat.

  “Is it true you’re . . . What I mean to say is— Uhh . . .” Flynn closed his eyes and shook his head in the darkness.

  “You don’t strike me as the type to stutter, Marshal,” Rose said in a muffled voice. He lay with his hat over his face and his hands neatly folded on his stomach. “Is it true I’m what?”

  Flynn glared at the man, wishing he had never opened his mouth. Now, he would have to ask his question or think up something else on the fly. He could just tell the man to shut up and be done with it, but his curiosity was getting the better of him. Just because Rose had kissed a man who had saved his life didn’t mean the gossip about Rose was true. He sighed and peered at the flickering hurricane lamp that was bolted to the wall of their cabin.

  “Is it true you bed men instead of women?” he asked, his interest winning out over embarrassment. He blushed hotly in the dark of the cabin anyway.

  “Why, Marshal, wherever did you hear such a thing?” Rose asked in feigned innocence, obviously aware of Flynn’s discomfort and enjoying it a little too much. He raised his shackled hands and lifted the brim of his hat, peering sideways at Flynn with a smirk. Flynn was glad that the flickering light masked his blush as Rose examined him. “Yes, it is.”

  Flynn turned his head with a jerk and blinked at his prisoner in shock, more from the easy admission than the actual answer. “Why?” he blurted.

  Rose rested his head back against his thin pillow and laughed. “Marshal, you are endearingly naïve sometimes,” he gasped as he tried to contain his laughter. He snickered as he slid his hat back over his eyes.

  Flynn stared at him. Whenever Rose spoke, it always seemed like some sort of mental trap, and Flynn again found himself regretting ever having opened his mouth and yet struggling against the urge to ask more.

  “And you, Marshal Flynn? Do you prefer men as well when given the choice?” Rose asked, as if questioning whether the sky was blue.

  “That’s none of your goddamned business. Shut up. Go to sleep,” Flynn ordered as he rolled onto his other side, thoroughly scandalized and done with the conversation.

  Rose’s soft laughter echoed behind him. “There is a certain amount of awkwardness to figuring it out, I admit. At first. But the way you touch yourself is the way you touch another man,” the prisoner continued in that slow, lilting drawl that Flynn had long ago begun to hate. “It’s not at all difficult to figure out for those who may be inclined.”

  “I said shut up,” Flynn growled in annoyance. He didn’t know whether the discussion was embarrassing him or causing too much interest, but either way he wanted it stopped. A brief thought of Wash lying in the cabin several decks down distracted him from growing even more outraged at the subject.

  “You were the one who asked. Do you truly want a real answer as to why?”

  Flynn swallowed hard, determined to remain silent.

  “I never made a conscious decision about it,” Rose said after a few moments. “I suppose I was just made that way. You won’t hear me complaining. I find an emotional connection much easier to form with a gentleman. Physically, it’s quite stimulating as well.”

  Flynn snorted loudly and shook his head. The answer struck too close to his own mind for his comfort. He’d always found himself admiring the physical features of gentlemen far more than those of ladies, seeking out the company of other men rather than women during social gatherings and pining for the easy camaraderie of another man rather than the awkward social intercourse of any woman he’d ever courted. He supposed Rose was right, mostly. That was just the way he’d been made.

  “I think you’re more than merely curious. There is purpose to your inquiries,” Rose went on insightfully. Flynn heard his chains clank once more. “Who is the lucky gentleman who has earned himself the honor of your amorous affections?”

  Flynn sat up so fast he nearly hit his head on the shelf above the cabin’s berth. He flopped back down onto his other side and glared at Rose through the flickering light. Rose had rolled onto his side as well and was looking at Flynn with eyes that danced in the low light.

  “I ain’t got amorous affections for nobody.”

  “The lady doth protest too much.”

  “What?” Flynn demanded.

  “It’s Shakespeare, Marshal.”

  “Don’t care what it is, you call me a lady again, you’ll be swimming to New Orleans,” Flynn promised. He stood and reached for the hurricane lamp, dousing the flame and throwing the cabin into darkness.

  “Come now, Marshal, I’m dying of curiosity,” Rose drawled. “Is it some poor stable boy in Lincoln?”

  “No,” Flynn grunted as he rolled onto his back and stared up into the darkness.

  “Ranch hand? Mercantile man? Wandering gambler?” Rose prodded.

  “I done told you—”

  “Is it me?” Rose asked with a mischievous smirk.

  Flynn shot him a dirty look. “Hell, no.”

  “It’s the good Marshal Washington, isn’t it?” Rose asked with an audible grin.

  Flynn blinked and licked his lips nervously as he lay there, trying desperately to think of something to say and feeling cornered by Rose’s unusual insight into his mind.

  “All right, Marshal, if you want to stay quiet, that’s your right. It’s not as if you have yourself an opportunity to ask questions of a man who knows and doesn’t mind to give you answers. I keep a secret quite we
ll too.”

  “Shut up,” Flynn ordered, but his voice had gone hoarse.

  “I dare say he would be receptive to such a thing,” Rose said before he rolled onto his back again and placed his hat over his face once more.

  Flynn glanced over at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Do sleep well, Marshal Flynn,” Rose drawled quietly.

  Cage lay awake in the cabin’s berth, frowning up at the circle of waning moonlight that was the porthole in their large cabin. It had come equipped with a double bed, and Wash had insisted they share it rather than utilizing the cot, pointing out that the bed was larger and so was Cage. Cage told himself that it was because the berth was sturdier to chain him to than the cot would have been and that Wash was being smart rather than kind, but he sort of doubted it. Wash just struck him as that type of man. Cage hadn’t known many truly good-hearted men in his life. He was having trouble reconciling it.

  A thump on the main deck one level below them startled him out of his thoughts, and he raised his head, trying to hear.

  “Something wrong?” Wash asked from his spot on the other side of the bed.

  Cage glanced over at him in the darkness, scowling at him.

  “Sorry,” Wash said after a few seconds of silence. He rolled up onto his elbow and reached for the hurricane lamp. When he turned it on, the shadows in the room danced as the flame grew bigger, and Cage could see him better. Wash was smiling at him sleepily. “Keep forgetting you can’t answer. You just got that quiet look about you, anyways.”

  Cage sat up in the bed and crossed his legs, ducking his head to listen. He pointed to his ear and then pointed again at the window.

  “I know you can hear fine, Cage,” Wash said as he sat up as well and rubbed at his eyes with the heel of his hand.

  Cage shook his head in frustration and sighed.

  “What?” Wash asked. At least he knew he had misunderstood. Most people didn’t even grasp that much. Or care if they did realize it.

  Cage made to stand but was stopped with a jerk when the chain that attached one hand to the wooden slats under the bed halted his progress. He sat back down on the bed with a thump and a grunt.

  Wash leaned forward, frowning. Cage pointed again at the window, then to his ear once more.

  “You heard something?”

  Cage nodded.

  “What was it?”

  Cage winced and shook his head.

  “Something out of place?”

  Cage frowned and shrugged helplessly. It was hard to say with certainty because of the noise from the paddle wheel and the rushing water, and Cage wasn’t exactly accustomed to life on the river in the first place. But he would bet his life on what he thought he’d heard: the heavy landing of someone boarding the steamer. He made a motion with his hands like a man climbing a ladder.

  Wash watched him carefully. “I don’t understand, son,” he finally said apologetically.

  Cage sighed and nodded, lowering his head.

  Wash sat in bed for another moment. Suddenly, he stood and walked around the end of the bed to Cage’s side, digging in his pocket. Cage watched in confusion as he came closer and leaned over him. He realized with a bit of shock that Wash was reaching for the chain that bound him to the bed.

  He looked up at the marshal questioningly.

  “I may not trust Rose as far as I can toss an ox,” Wash murmured, “but you don’t deserve to be chained to your damn bed like an outlaw.”

  Cage wet his lips and watched as Wash unlocked the cuff and removed it from his hand. He automatically rubbed his sore wrist, looking up at Wash again. He swallowed around an unfamiliar tightness in his throat and mouthed the words “thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, son. Just don’t go tellin’ Flynn,” Wash said with a smirk as he turned away.

  Cage snorted at him and smiled.

  Suddenly there was a ruckus from the lobby outside, banging and shouting up and down the corridor. When the pounding reached their door, Cage had already jumped to his feet. Marshal Washington whirled in alarm, his gun out of reach as the door was kicked open and a man stepped in, shotgun leveled at them.

  “We’re havin’ a party down yonder,” the stranger drawled from behind a dirty handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth. “Why don’t y’all join us?”

  “Marshall Flynn,” Rose hissed in the darkness.

  Flynn was immediately alert, blinking into the darkness as he tried to locate his prisoner.

  “Marshal Flynn,” Rose repeated, his voice an urgent, sharp whisper. “You’ve got trouble, Marshal.”

  Flynn’s gun was in his hand as he peered at the dim circle of light cast by the porthole of the cabin. Rose’s cot lay directly beneath it, and the moonlight filtering through the mist and clouds was blue on his dark hair as he sat peering at Flynn.

  “What?” Flynn demanded hoarsely as he eased his thumb off the hammer of his gun.

  “The boat just picked up a rowboat of men,” Rose whispered.

  Flynn blinked and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand as he lowered his gun. “It’s a passenger boat, Rose, that’s what the hell it does.”

  “They didn’t use the landing stages. And I saw a lot of iron in the moonlight, Marshal. I’m telling you, you’ve got a storm coming.”

  As if to accentuate his words, a gunshot sounded suddenly from the main level of the boat, followed by a woman’s high-pitched scream. Flynn bounded up and toward the door, but stopped at the last moment and turned to glare at his prisoner. “If this is somehow your doing—”

  “I assure you, Marshal, I don’t have the resources to storm a paddle steamer from my cot,” Rose said, and the undertones of alarm and urgency in his voice made Flynn lean toward believing him.

  He licked his lips and glanced around the cabin again indecisively as shouts and screams sounded from below.

  “They’re after the gold,” Rose asserted, his voice soft but still somehow worrying. “The crates in the hold, that’s why they’re here.”

  “Shut up,” Flynn said automatically.

  He could hear the pounding of heavy footsteps in the corridors of the deck below them. He could hear ladies protesting loudly and gentlemen shouting in outrage over rough treatment.

  Flynn decided the newcomers were herding all the passengers and crew into a central location, probably the dining salon since it was the largest enclosed area on the paddleboat: easy to defend, hard to escape from. He knew most of the passengers who’d be carrying weapons would congregate in the main cabin or the salon at this time of the evening anyway, drinking and playing cards to pass the time. Moving to pen all the passengers in there, where they could be used to keep the more dangerous men in check by simply being in the way, made sense from a tactical point of view.

  “They must have a lot of men,” Flynn realized in horror as he thought about the manpower and brashness it would take to round up an entire riverboat full of passengers and crew in the short amount of time that was required to maintain the element of surprise.

  “Marshal, you’ve got to think.” Rose yanked at his irons, and they clanked accusingly. “They’ll be coming.”

  “Shut up.” Flynn opened the door to their cabin and peered out. Had Wash’s cabin been reached yet? Had Wash identified himself as a US Marshal and been killed by the gunshot they had heard? Had Cage been telling them lies and really could speak after all, and had the man given Wash away? Irrational paranoia and fear assaulted him, and he worked hard to push it all away and think clearly.

  “Flynn!” Rose whispered urgently, pulling at his chains again. “If you don’t move, they’ll have us both just like all the others! They’ll kill me if they recognize me!” He was nearly pleading as Flynn turned and met his stare.

  For perhaps the first time, he thought he saw true fear in the shootist’s eyes. And Rose was right, if the shipment of gold was being taken, then the men doing it wouldn’t hesitate to kill a famous gunman in their midst. Or the deputy US Marshal es
corting him.

  “Unlock me and give me a gun!”

  “Hell, no,” Flynn grunted as he closed the door again. He engaged the flimsy lock and then reached across the small cabin for the chair that sat at the writing desk. It was a sturdy piece of furniture, with the Anchor Line’s trademark anchor logo carved into the back of it. He jammed it under the doorknob and then grabbed his bag.

  Rose watched him as he riffled through his things, searching for his backup shooters and ammunition.

  “Do you plan to leave me here?” Rose asked him calmly. His voice was suddenly detached, as if he expected Flynn to abandon him to his fate and was already calculating his odds of survival and how to get away.

  “No. Just be quiet.” He pulled out his spare six-shooter and a belt of ammunition and slung it over his shoulder as he looked around the tiny cabin. He nodded at the tiny porthole. “Think you can get through that window?”

  “Sure, have you got some butter and lard to grease me?” Rose asked sarcastically.

  Flynn scowled down at him. A loud bang came from the cabin adjacent to theirs. Rose held up his chained hands without another word. After a brief moment to second-guess himself, Flynn extracted the keys from his pocket and unlocked the man, then stepped back warily as Rose stood.

  “Any tomfoolery on your part and I’ll kill you,” Flynn warned in a low voice. “The rules just changed.”

  “I understand, Marshal,” Rose whispered. “The man you love is out there.”

  Before Flynn even knew what he was doing, he’d hit his prisoner, sending him crashing back into the cot. “You watch your damn mouth,” he snarled, then he yanked Rose back to his feet and shoved the cot out of the way and against the door.

  Rose merely cleared his throat and nodded as he rubbed at his cheekbone, not even protesting the punch.

  Flynn stepped up to the porthole and pushed the glass outward, judging the size and whether they could even attempt it.

  “You won’t make it with your holsters,” Rose advised quietly as the doorknob to their cabin rattled.