Outlaw Moon

by Charlotte Hubbard

  “You’re shameless, Amber,” he remarked as she picked up her winnings.

  “It’s a living,” she said with a shrug.

  This time as she shuffled and dealt from Becker’s, deck she noted that he was again holding his cards against the table’s edge . . . covering the area where any concealed cards might pop up from a holdout in his vest. She knew from her days in New Orleans gaming houses that a lot of these devices were activated by the bending of an elbow or a knee, which tugged on a series of tiny wires and pulleys to produce the card. Her next move was to decide if he was indeed using a little mechanical help when his own deck was in play.

  They put in their antes and as the bets volleyed between them, Amber slyly slipped off a shoe and inched her foot forward to touch one of Becker’s. He grinned and upped the bet to a hundred dollars.

  “I’ll see your hundred and raise it twenty-five,” she murmured, returning his smile when he lightly rubbed his foot against hers.

  “I’ll see your hundred and a quarter and raise it a quarter more,” he replied with a wolfish grin. “And if you’ll kindly save your affections for when—”

  Amber eased her instep up his calf, and when he quickly brought both knees together, she smiled to herself. Most men were only too glad to let her toe continue its wayward journey; Becker’s behavior said he was hiding something.

  “Oh, excuse me,” she replied, letting him take the hand and his winnings with a gracious grin. “I thought you invited me to come alone because you had another sort of game in mind, as well.”

  He laughed wickedly. “So I do, my dear. But that comes after one of us proves himself the superior card player.”

  Becker was holding her gaze—to divert her attention from the fact that he was now shuffling his own marked deck rather than hers. Amber played along. She had another ploy in mind, because she sensed the beefy businessman was already daydreaming about a more intimate pastime than poker. They were nearly even, as winnings went, so as he dealt the cards with a confident glance at the backs of them, she cleared her throat.

  “What say we make this interesting,” she teased, giving him a suggestive once-over. “I do admire that gold watch and its impressive chain, Conrad. Let’s play for it!”

  His eyes narrowed as he scanned his hand ...the smile he squelched suggested that he’d favored himself with plenty of high cards. “And what will you bet, my little vixen? This was my daddy’s watch, you see.”

  Amber removed the smaller of the two diamond rings and set it in the center of the table. “This is at least equal in value, you’ll find. And I’ll throw in a kiss . . . any kind of kiss you want, Conrad, honey.”

  The man’s midsection quivered as he leaned against the table. “You’re on, Amber darling,” he crooned. “And if I win, I get to claim my prize in my private car. Agreed?”

  “I suppose.” She waited until he was looking down to unfasten his watch fob before widening her eyes in an imploring look at Thomas. The porter nodded slightly, apparently ready to spring to her defense. He’d been following their game from the bar, where he wouldn’t attract Becker’s attention.

  “Bring me a whiskey, boy! And one for the lady,” her opponent suddenly commanded.

  “Yessir. Comin’ right up!”

  Amber knew this was another diversionary tactic, and she wasn’t surprised when the man across from her offered his glass in a toast. “To another round of fair play, where the best man wins,” he said cockily as she clinked his tumbler against hers. “I believe you’ll find that I not only drink a far superior form of liquor to Jackson’s, Miss LaBelle, but that I outperform him in every other way as well.”

  Becker tossed down half his whiskey while she took a dainty sip. Again he was baiting her, bringing Rafferty to mind, and she was eager to get this hand played and get the hell out of here. She had paltry cards and Becker knew it. She was relying upon her ability to catch him at his cheating, thereby nullifying their bet and ending the game before he could claim the kiss that wouldn’t stop at her lips.

  And, as though her opponent was reading her thoughts, he glanced stealthily toward the porter standing nearby. “Have you seen any signs that either of us hasn’t played a square game, boy?”

  “No, sir,” Thomas replied tersely, “but then, I’s been mindin’ my own business, settin’ up the bar, sir.”

  “And why is that?”

  The burly black man lowered his eyes. “I’s been paid to, Mr. Becker, sir.”

  “Probably half a year’s wages, am I correct?” Becker asked archly. “Certainly enough that no one will come in while Miss LaBelle and I settle up. And enough that none of the conductors will hear of any . . . ungentlemanly behavior, should she resist my attentions. Isn’t that right, boy?”

  Thomas cleared his throat. “Yessir.”

  “You despicable bastard,” Amber hissed. “This man probably has a family to support! Of course he took your bribe, Becker, and only scum would force him into such a situation.” She reached for the colored man’s hand to give it a sympathetic squeeze. “Don’t you worry, Thomas, I’ve handled his type before. I figured it would come to this, even if I let him win, and I’m ready for him.”

  The porter’s eyes widened in gratitude—and perhaps in warning—as he shuffled back to the bar to replenish Becker’s whiskey. Her opponent was sitting with his cards on the table’s edge again, leering, ready to intimidate her with another remark. Amber prayed that she appeared more confident than she felt. With Rafferty out of the picture and Thomas paid off, she was clearly on her own . . . and Becker was resembling a grizzly bear salivating over its prey.

  “Mighty bold words, little lady,” he taunted. “How many cards do you need?”

  “Three.”

  He chortled. “I can just feel that kiss now.”

  Amber slipped both her feet near his and leaned forward, displaying not only her cleavage but the tops of her cards, so he could be damn sure she wasn’t holding anything higher than a ten. “And how many are you taking, Conrad?”

  “None.” But as he gave her a crocodile smile, Amber felt the slightest movement of his legs . . . and felt her heart pounding victoriously.

  “Then why do you have six cards in your hand?” she accused in a low, pointed voice. Becker scowled. “I believe if you’ll count—”

  “Go ahead—drop the extra one!” she cried, and then she forced his knees apart with a quick thrust of her feet. “That little device in your vest will keep handing you aces or kings as many times as you spread your legs!”

  At that moment a spare card did pop up above Becker’s carefully-positioned hand, and he sprang from his chair. “You little—”

  “The watch is mine! You forfeit for cheating!” Amber snatched her ring and the expensive timepiece from the table. “And unless you admit defeat, Thomas is going to fetch a conductor. It’s every railroad employee’s duty to protect the passengers—”

  The slam of the door behind her left her alone with a grimacing, fuming Conrad Becker, but it also meant help was on the way. If she could hold him off for a few minutes, she would come out of this unfortunate encounter no worse off than when she walked into it.

  She laid the watch back on the table amid their scattered cards. “We can both walk out of here with our reputations intact if you’ll listen to reason,” she said quietly. “We’re nearly even, money-wise. Take your daddy’s watch and keep your hands to yourself. Leave the car, and I’ll tell the conductor we settled our squabble without him.”

  The tycoon was clenching his oversized fists, his face an enraged purple mask. “Nobody calls Conrad Becker a cheat, little bitch. And if you think I’m going to let you leave this car, to spread your rumors among my men about some damn holdout—”

  “You’re wearing one. The conductor’s going to know that as soon as—”

  He grabbed her arm, pulling her against him before Amber could dart beyond his reach. Becker covered her shriek with his mouth and wrestled her onto the table top, hi
s strength awkward yet far superior to her own. As he held her down with his bulk he kissed her wetly, his hands grasping greedily at her sides to raise her skirts as he wedged himself between her legs.

  She could hardly breathe beneath him, so she prayed that Thomas had indeed gone to bring help despite being bribed not to. Were those footsteps on the metal platform she heard? Becker must’ve thought so, too, because he suddenly yanked her up to stand with her back against him, facing the door. And with a final, stealthy stroking of her thigh, he waited for whoever would enter the parlor car.

  “Help me!” she screamed, and when two uniformed conductors burst through the door ahead of Thomas, she thought her prayers had been answered.

  “Unhand this woman—”

  “She’s a cardsharp and a thief!” Becker declared, tightening his grasp so that her breasts nearly fell from her blouse. “Don’t be fooled, gentlemen! This little lady not only hid cards in her clothes, but she’s stolen my daddy’s gold watch!”

  “That’s a lie!” Amber cried. “It’s Becker who cheated, and you should look inside his—”

  “What kind of a railroad do you run, letting such riffraff aboard to harass honest passengers?” Becker bellowed above her protest, and then they were wrenched apart by the two muttering conductors.

  “Enough already!” the older, gruffer one holding Amber commanded. “Now what’s your complaint, ma’am? Who set this game up, anyway?”

  She cleared her throat, deciding honesty was the best policy because her opponent was wearing incriminating evidence. “I did. It was Becker who insisted on playing me alone, however. And he bribed Thomas to cover for what he’s done to me.”

  “Is that true, sir?” the conductor holding Becker asked.

  “Yes, indeedy, she set me up. Thought I was walking into an honest game, passing some time with a pretty lady. And damned if she didn’t con me!”

  “How so, sir?”

  Amber felt her stomach knotting as the conductors looked her over much more suspiciously than they were eyeing Becker. He was, of course, the president of a company that had booked a private car plus first-class accommodations for twenty men ....

  “She suggested we play for my daddy’s gold watch. And before I could even show my hand, she snatched it up and tried to run off!” Conrad replied brusquely. “Check her pockets, if you don’t believe me!”

  “That’s a lie,” she repeated, but her voice had a warp in it. “Mr. Becker is wearing a holdout under his vest, which surely proves his intent to cheat me before we even got here this morning.”

  “Would you please empty your pockets, ma’am, just to satisfy all concerned?” the older conductor instructed.

  The man standing by Becker pulled a sheet of paper from his uniform pocket. “And what did you say your name was?” he asked in a conspiratorial tone. “I don’t recall seeing you come aboard.”

  Were these two employees also in Becker’s pocket? Had Conrad arranged this little scene by paying them before she came to the parlor car, as revenge for the way she and Rafferty shut him down last night?

  When her hand found the hard, round object in her skirt pocket, it didn’t really matter whose interest the conductors were serving. Becker had reversed one of her own devious tricks by planting his watch on her as he was pulling her up from the table.

  “My name’s Amber LaBelle,” she mumbled as she pulled the damning evidence from the folds of her skirt, “and I swear to you, I did not take this man’s watch. I was trying to reason with—”

  “Nobody on the passenger list by that name,” the younger conductor clucked. “Ma’am, it appears—”

  “She be travelin’ with Mr. Jackson, sir. In his private car,” Thomas piped up. “Miss Amber was forced to come in here alone when—”

  “I think we’ve heard enough. That gold watch speaks for itself,” the man beside Becker stated. “Is anything else missing, sir? We’ll be coming into a station in about twenty minutes, and we’ll escort this woman off the train. She’s obviously a stowaway, a parasite plying a trade that sickens those of us pledged to uphold the Union Pacific’s reputation. We thank you for bringing her presence to our attention, Mr. Becker, and we’re sorry for any inconvenience she’s caused you. I assure you that word of this incident won’t go beyond this car.”

  Amber swallowed hard, determined not to cave in to her humiliation. “May I at least gather up my things?” she asked quietly.

  “I’ll take you, Miss Amber,” the porter said as he walked her toward the far door. “We’ll find Mr. Jackson and get this whole mess straightened out. You just leave it to Thomas to—”

  “Don’t get yourself into any more trouble,” she said when they were outside on the platform. “I’m not on the passenger list, and after a spat with Mr. Jackson last night, I doubt he’ll pay my fare to smooth things over. This is my own fault, Thomas.”

  “But missy, I thought . . .”

  The porter was kind enough not to quiz her about hide-and-seek with a wealthy, sex-crazed maniac. And as soon as she had her carpetbags packed, he left her with the two waiting conductors—to locate Rafferty, she hoped.

  It was a desperate straw to clutch, but Amber prayed the outlaw would find it in his heart to rescue her from this horrible fate. The train was chugging to a stop at an isolated little station that was barely bigger than an outhouse. Before the wheels stopped turning she was being ushered down the platform steps by the two silent, hard-faced conductors as though she’d ruined the reputation of the mighty Union Pacific Railroad.

  “I—I have a horse,” she stammered. “It’s the white mare—”

  “Ought to keep it, as payment for the trouble you’ve caused,” the older man muttered as he strode toward the stock car. “Watch her, Tate. Don’t believe a word she says.”

  Amber couldn’t meet her guard’s gaze, so she searched the row of cars along the train’s length, hoping to see a dark, mustached man come bounding from one of them to rescue her. She had no idea where Jack spent the night, and she wouldn’t care that he thought she was a liar and a whore, if only she didn’t get left alone at this God-forsaken outpost... if only he’d let her explain and answer his accusations.

  But here came the conductor with a bridled Miss Blanche. No passengers were boarding here, so Tate waved to the man leaning out from behind the locomotive. The smokestack belched a black cloud and the train lurched like a gray snake with a violent case of hiccups, and then it rolled slowly away from the deserted-looking station.

  A moment later, however, a squatty little man in denims ambled out of the dilapidated building, letting the door bang in the wind. “Help you, miss?” he asked, eyeing her curiously.

  Her throat was so tight she could hardly talk. “I—I’ll be needing a hotel room for a while—”

  “Hotel?” the man hooted, and then he gestured around them with outstretched arms. “Lady, this here’s only a stock stop, where farmers load their cattle for market. Ain’t a town for miles!”

  She shut her eyes against an overwhelming rush of desperation . . . and fear. This gnomelike station attendant must lead the loneliest of lives, and he wouldn’t care what crimes she’d been accused of. Her heart pounded with the accelerating rhythm of the passing boxcars.

  And when she felt the wind in her face as the end of the train rolled by, she opened her eyes to see none other than Jack Rafferty standing on the platform of the caboose. His hands were planted on the railing and he was watching her without any sign of recognition. Not so much as a flicker of that damned mustache.

  And as he grew smaller and smaller in the distance, Amber knew she’d never see that conniving, no-account lady killer’s face again.

  Chapter 12

  Felicity Nunn eased herself into the tub full of steaming, lavender-scented water and closed her eyes with the deliciousness of it. “Jack Rafferty, you’re a conniving, no-account lady killer,” she whispered, “and you’ll soon be mine.”

  She giggled richly. After all the hearta
che and humiliation Jack had heaped upon her in Dodge, she deserved this little vacation where revenge was her chief form of recreation. After months of tolerating Douglas Nunn’s clammy hands and quirks only an undertaker could possess, she’d learned that his money couldn’t erase the degradation of being rejected, abused, and laughed at. But it did pay her way out of Kansas, and put her on the trail of the handsome lawyer-turned-outlaw who’d done her wrong.

  Her suffering and shame were all in the past now, buried with that old fart Nunn—and Bitsy—in Boot Hill. Even the soreness of two weeks on horseback was fading as these hot, fragrant bubbles soaked away her cares. Felicity giggled again and rested her head on the edge of the tub. Once she’d found Gideon’s blue costume wadded up in the Omaha station’s washroom, and Booth learned that Rafe Jackson was bound for northern Minnesota in a private Pullman, she’d insisted on accommodations equally as luxurious as Jack’s while they followed him along the tracks.

  And why not? She’d catch up to him as quickly while ensconced in these elegant surroundings as she would out in the noisy, crowded passenger cars. And this Pullman—the Countess, it was called—afforded her the privacy to indulge more fully in her fantasies. Booth Watson was due for dinner any moment now, and she planned to bestow a very personal incentive to find Rafferty, while they discussed their strategy for his capture.

  “Boo-ooth,” she whispered languidly, letting his name caress her tongue as she said it. His confident virility oozed from every pore of his broad, muscular body, and when he favored her with one of his reserved smiles she got wet between the legs. She was eager for him now, just waiting to see the stunned pleasure on his face when he found her naked and waiting in this bubbly tub. Was he as good a lover as Jack?

  Felicity laughed aloud at the thought. Nobody could make her crazy for it the way Rafferty could—which was her chief reason for wanting him back, once he apologized for all the pain he’d put her through.