“You can trust me, Violet,” Cade said. “You know you can.”
He was probably right. Of everyone she knew, Cade was the only one who’d never tried to sugarcoat his opinions of the way she looked or the way she behaved. Cade had never pretended to love her. He’d never even gone out of his way to be particularly solicitous of her. He was characteristically blunt and fully undaunted by the attitudes of other people. He was…himself.
On the other hand, Violet remembered, Cade took chances for a living. He wagered on everything from playing cards to dice to her own homemade apple pandowdy. I make my living on hope and happenstance, he’d told her once. Honesty doesn’t enter into it.
Did that mean she could trust him? Or not?
Unhappily, she recalled what her best friend, Adeline, had said upon learning of Cade’s interest in Violet. You’d better be cautious, Adeline had told her. You don’t want to get hurt.
What Adeline hadn’t said was what they both knew: that Cade’s newfound devotion might be both short-lived and heartbreaking for Violet to lose…now that she’d sampled it.
“Well, I guess you probably have about a week’s worth of luck by now,” Violet settled on saying, sidestepping the issue of trust altogether. Brightly, she smiled. “That’ll do, right?”
“No.” Cade frowned. “Because this isn’t about good luck.”
“It isn’t?”
“Not anymore. You make me want more than luck. Much more.”
“You’re a gambler, Cade.” Violet turned away, hoping to divert herself by straightening the papers on her father’s cluttered desk. “What more is there for you, besides luck?”
Silence. But only for a moment.
“I was hoping you could tell me that,” Cade said.
Violet didn’t have the first notion how to do so. Hedging, she said, “Until my father agrees that I may see you on a social basis, I’m afraid I can’t comment on our…relationship.”
“Then there is one. Good.” There was a smile in his voice. “That’s a start, at least. That means both of us are anteing up.”
“I’m not a poker game,” Violet protested, “to be bet upon!”
“I guess we’ll see about that.” As she turned to him again, Cade tipped his hat to her. “I’ll be back. You can bet on that yourself—even without an infamous gambler’s credentials to your name.”
Then, with an audacious wink, Cade exited to the churchyard, leaving Violet to wonder exactly what he meant—and if she should bet on anything at all where the gambler was concerned.
*
Outside under a ponderosa pine tree, Simon Blackhouse stood smoking a cheroot. A farmer wandered past, giving the itinerant bachelor an inquisitive look—undoubtedly owing to Blackhouse’s fancy suit, air of privilege…and close-at-hand valet, Adams.
Approaching his benefactor, Cade didn’t feel as awkward as that farmer undoubtedly did. But he did feel unaccountably grim.
“Will she do it?” Blackhouse asked.
Cade gave a curt nod. Behind him in the church, the people of Morrow Creek went about their Sunday worship—unknowingly, with a freshly kissed Violet Benson beaming in their midst.
She hadn’t been kissed much, Cade decided. Or she hadn’t been kissed very well. But what Violet lacked in tutoring, she made up for in sheer, stirring responsiveness. With Violet all warm and pliant and soft in his arms, Cade had felt luckier than a riverboat gambler with a handful of aces and no table limit.
“Good. You’ll need her.” Expansively, Blackhouse offered Cade a cheroot—or rather, at his signal, Adams proffered the box of elegant, square-tipped cigars. Cade accepted one. “I was beginning to think you couldn’t catch up with Whittier on your own. I was considering calling in a fallback to make certain.”
“I’ll catch up with Whittier.” Discontentedly, Cade eyed the small, white-painted church. In a minute, congregants would begin streaming out, full of chatter and kindheartedness. Men would stretch and collect their wagons; women would tidy their children’s hair; youngsters would let loose the energy they’d kept pent up while stuck in their pews. They’d holler their glee at being free from confinement for the rest of the afternoon.
Dimly, Cade recalled doing all those things with Judah…and his parents. But the memories felt faded and bittersweet, almost too hazy to believe they’d happened to anyone…least of all him.
“Someone else might be even more motivated to find Whittier,” Blackhouse was saying. He withdrew his favorite match safe, a shiny gold model engraved with a full house of cards. In a whiff of sulfur and a crackle of fire, he struck a match to light Cade’s cheroot. “Your brother, for instance?”
Over the glowing tip of his newly lit cheroot, Cade eyed Blackhouse. “Judah and I agreed. When I won that Jürgensen, I earned the right to track down Whittier. I did. No one else.”
“Ah, yes. The famed ‘luckiest game of your life.’”
“That’s right.”
Dubiously, Blackhouse perused the gold chain that secured Cade’s watch, tucked safely in the pocket of his ornate wool vest. “If only you’d known that it was Whittier across the table from you that night,” he said. “That it was his watch you were winning. Things might have unfolded very differently.”
Cade wished they had. But he refused to say so.
“I’ve often wondered…” Blackhouse went on in a cryptic fashion. “Do you think Whittier lost on purpose? Maybe he wanted you to have that Jürgensen. Just because you didn’t know who he was doesn’t mean he didn’t know who you were…even then.”
At that, Cade felt even less talkative. Drawing on his cheroot, he gazed contemplatively at the church. From inside it, the homespun sound of the congregants’ singing reached its crescendo. That meant the service was almost over, he reckoned.
“I always liked that hymn,” he remarked without thinking.
Blackhouse’s raised eyebrow brought him back to himself quickly. Cade didn’t want hymns. He wanted answers. Period.
“All this goodness and God talk is giving me a headache.” With a jerk of his head, Cade indicated the dusty street nearby. “How about a bolt of mescal and a fast round of Mexican monte?”
“Yes!” Blackhouse appeared immeasurably cheered. “As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t feel I’d visited the Arizona Territory properly if I didn’t sample more of…both those things,” he said. “Come along, Adams! We have winning to do.”
Just as the worshippers began filing out into the churchyard, Cade escaped in the opposite direction with Blackhouse and Adams hard on his heels. That made twice now that he’d eluded redemption, it occurred to him, and by a narrow margin each time, too. But Cade couldn’t help wondering as he headed away from the church and all its virtuous believers: Would he ever stop running…if Violet ever asked him to?
Chapter Six
It was near midnight by the time Cade looked up from the gambling table. Mexican monte with Blackhouse had turned into roulette with Adams, which had led to craps with Sheriff Caffey, which had segued into “bucking the tiger” with a new batch of local gamesters and everyone’s favorite sin: faro.
Now, with an almost empty whiskey bottle at his elbow, a pile of cash winnings beside it and a too-friendly saloon girl eyeing both him and his latest hand of cards, Cade knew he should have felt on top of his game. Instead he felt morose and brooding and downright solitary. He wasn’t alone; not precisely. But he felt as detached from his opulent, risk-engendering, sinfulness-stoking surroundings as he possibly could have.
When had green baize and playing cards become so dull? How had scantily clad women and wagering opponents stopped being stimulating? Where was he supposed to go for satisfaction now?
He hadn’t entered into the gambling world for thrills, Cade reminded himself. But somewhere along the way, while searching for Whittier and tracking his movements within the circuit, he’d become used to the distracting pleasures that world offered him.
Glancing around the table now as he idly placed his next
bet, Cade couldn’t help wondering: When he got the answers he needed from Whittier…what then? What would be left for him then?
As if in answer to that question, a gray-haired man stepped through the crowd of saloon goers. He wore a sober pressed suit, a minister’s clerical collar and a starched-looking hat. From beneath its dark brim, his full, silvery whiskers were plainly evident; so was his determined expression. Whatever Reverend Benson had come to the saloon for, it was important to him.
“Foster!” Reverend Benson barked. “I want a word with you.”
Aha. The minister had come regarding Violet, then. Cade had been expecting this—for quite a while, in fact.
“Just one word?” Cade gave the older man’s lowered eyebrows and indomitable features a chary look. He set down his cards, readying himself. “I reckon you want more than that, don’t you?”
“Don’t be impertinent.”
“I’m guessing you’ve got a whole passel of words saved up, all ready to unleash on me.” Cade clinked together his winnings. With deft movements, he pocketed his money. Beside him, the showily painted saloon girl blinked, obviously surprised at his speedy movements. “Let me guess—they start with ‘stay away’ and end with ‘my daughter.’ Am I close, Reverend?”
The older man compressed his mouth, seeming displeased.
Knowingly, Cade grinned. “You’re not the first father I’ve run into during my travels. I doubt you’ll be the last.”
But he was the only one Cade had ever felt disappointed to be having this conversation with. The realization puzzled him.
“That only makes my business with you all the more urgent.”
“To you? Maybe.” Cade shrugged. “But to me, this is just the latest town. The latest game. The latest overprotective father, determined to guard his daughter’s virtue.” Aware of their observers’ curious looks, Cade met Reverend Benson’s gaze squarely. If the reverend thought they’d forged some sort of friendship just because Cade had slipped the man an improving card…well, he’d better think again. Cade didn’t form alliances. “The only thing that makes you different, Reverend, is you’re less likely to swear at me. Or to try to swing a punch.”
“Keep talking.” Frowning, Reverend Benson made a fist. “You might inspire me to show you that you’re wrong about that.”
Impressed, Cade raised his eyebrows. Maybe he had misjudged this particular soft-spoken father. “Violet wouldn’t like that.”
“You don’t know what my daughter likes.”
“Mmm. I think I do.” He had when he’d been kissing her. But admitting as much would be beyond indiscreet—and Cade was nothing if not restrained. His lonely life had taught him to be. Carelessly, he dragged on his suit coat. He adjusted his lapels, then made himself smile. “You’re here later than I expected,” he observed, glancing up at the minister again. “Most fathers would have voiced their objections to me long before now.”
Reverend Benson straightened. “I am not most fathers.”
“Violet is not most women.” Lazily, Cade rose. “So I’m curious to know. Why have you waited this long to protect her?”
Benson’s eyes bulged. Growing red faced, he pointed a shaky finger at Cade. “Your intentions are dishonorable, then?”
Another smile. “If they were, would I admit it?”
“Talk straight with me!” The reverend raised his voice. “I’m here, man to man, to manage this situation between you and Violet. To offer you a wager! But if you insist on speaking in riddles with me, then it will be impossible for us to—”
“A wager?” His curiosity piqued, Cade went still. No domineering papa or interfering uncle or matchmaking mother had ever suggested a wager. Not to him. Especially not with regard to a woman like Violet. He’d been hoping he could use charm and conviviality to earn Reverend Benson’s blessing to call on Violet—eventually—but that tactic no longer seemed available…not given the man’s current combativeness. “What sort of wager?”
Reverend Benson glanced around. Across Jack Murphy’s boisterous saloon, the piano still pinged out a bawdy tune. Gamblers still placed their bets. But near the table where Cade had done his wagering so far, all was silent in anticipation.
“A private one,” Benson said firmly. “Let’s talk alone.”
That seemed fair. With another shrug, Cade left behind his latest game. “Keep the table warm, gents,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll be back directly to clean your pockets.”
Amid the genial, profanity-filled objections of his fellow sporting men, Cade followed Reverend Benson to the saloon’s back room. Whatever Violet had done to bewitch him into wanting her by his side, Cade realized, it must be nigh irresistible.
Otherwise, how else to explain the fact that he was about to risk angering a man of God—and maybe the Almighty Himself—in a wager that was sure to be foolish at best?
But he didn’t have much to lose, Cade reminded himself as he shut the door behind himself and Reverend Benson. His search for Whittier was leaching away whatever hopefulness he’d once had. If a fresh bet could enliven his night, what was the harm?
*
Standing in the minuscule, inadequately heated Morrow Creek train station office on a brisk autumn morning, Violet accepted a stack of registers and paperwork from Joseph Abernathy, the clerk. It was an awkward exchange. Joseph had lost partial use of his hand and arm a few years ago during a sawing accident at the Copeland Lumber Mill, so his grasp on the records was a bit precarious. But his smile, which he offered her in conjunction with the leather-bound books, appeared every bit as bright and boyish as it always had.
“Here you go, Miss Benson,” he said cheerfully. “All our receipts from last spring all the way up to last week.”
“That will be fine. I shouldn’t need any more than that.” Knowing the records in her grasp ought to provide her with at least a first step in tracking Tobe’s arrival with his mother in Morrow Creek, Violet smiled. “Thank you very much, Joseph. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help. Again. This must be the fourth favor you’ve done for me in as many months.”
“Pshaw. It’s no problem at all!” Joseph insisted. “After everything you’ve done for me, it’s the least I could do. If it weren’t for you, I don’t know what would have happened to me.”
He meant after he’d lost his job at the lumber mill, Violet knew. He’d been deeply distraught. But all that was behind him.
“The depot is fortunate to have you.” Joseph’s position there—wrangled by the combination of Violet and mill owner Marcus Copeland, working together—had been a snap to procure. “You’re smart and hardworking, and that uniform suits you, too.”
This time Joseph blushed, all the way to his ears. “That’s what Miss Hartford told me. That she likes me in my uniform.”
“Really?” Intrigued and pleased, Violet hugged the records to her chest. “How are things progressing between you two?”
Somewhat shyly, Joseph confided his plans to propose to his longtime beloved, Miss Letitia Hartford. Violet liked Joseph; she was happy for him. For the first time when hearing such romantic news, she didn’t feel even a twinge of jealousy or self-pity. She had someone to care for, too, Violet remembered—someone who cared for her, also. Someone who wanted to kiss her!
Cade might be an unusual partner, but he was a dazzling one. His interest in her now made up for years of disregard.
“Well, good luck with your proposal.” Warmly, Violet gave Joseph a parting squeeze to his upper arm. “I have business to conduct at the Lorndorff Hotel—” meaning she had more records to retrieve there “—a few letters to mail and then a sewing bee to get to. My women’s group is making quilts for needy families this year, and there’s a great deal of work left to be done.”
“That’s mighty kindhearted of you, Miss Benson.”
Violet merely shrugged. “It’s as much for me as it is for anyone else. I’m so blessed—how could I not share that?”
“Knowing you? You couldn’t.” J
oseph tipped his cap. With a leading look, he added, “I only hope you and your Mr. Foster will be as happy together as me and Miss Hartford are.”
“If you’re angling for grist for the gossip mill, I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed.” Violet grinned. “Despite rumors to the contrary, Mr. Foster and I share a simple friendship.” With kisses. Lots and lots of kisses. “That’s all.”
At least until Papa agrees I may see Cade. And then….
“Absolutely,” Joseph agreed, eyes wide with sham naïveté. “No one is expecting a wintertime engagement for you at all!”
An engagement. Wouldn’t that be extraordinary?
With the notion taking root in her heart for the first time, Violet considered precisely what such a remarkable event would mean: that she was loved…beloved. That she could finally give herself to someone on a more personal basis than the broad generosity required for quilted coverlets or charity kitchens.
That would be the fulfillment of her dreams for certain. But did she—plain-featured, overlooked Violet Benson—truly dare to hope for such a momentous occurrence? Cade insisted he wanted her. Joseph and several of her friends seemed to agree that they could become a credible couple. So what was stopping her?
“Well, perhaps everyone should expect that!” Violet dared to say. At the immenseness of her boast, her heartbeat hammered madly. If she wasn’t careful, soon she’d be bluffing as often and as recklessly as Cade. But at the same time, she couldn’t help remembering exactly what Cade had told her the other day.
Give over, Violet. Do it. It’s the only way to feel alive.
She wanted to give over to her wildest impulses. She did. Cade had helped her to recognize that from their very first dance. Already, Violet realized, she was well on her way.
Perhaps now she could go even further.
Joseph blinked, appearing slightly less teasing—and slightly less sure. “We should expect an engagement? For you?”
Heedless of the hesitation now edging into her friend’s voice, Violet brightened. She should do it! she decided. She should do something, at least. She should…seize this rare opportunity at courtship and gamble on love herself! Everyone seemed to believe she’d done so already. So why not do it?
Lisa Plumley Page 8
