Gambled Away: A Historical Romance Anthology

by Rose Lerner

  Her lips moved in an oath. Slowly, hand over hand, she started to make her way down the length of the rope, descending past the white clay walls of the house and over toward the middle of the tree.

  Sam was a quarter of the way along, perhaps the height of three men, when Talathan heard the first creak from the branch.

  “Be wind,” he muttered under his breath, too low for Sam to hear. “I pray you, be only wind.”

  The second, sharper crack convinced him that his prayers were futile. At home, he could have held the tree together with his will and the right songs; here he could only rush back toward Sam, his heart barely daring to beat. He fixed his eyes on the branch and could see the crack widening.

  She was halfway across now. He could have called to her, told her to go faster—and exposed them to their enemies. Besides, he suspected she was moving as fast as she could; even ignorant of the breaking branch, she would not have wanted to delay.

  The wind howled as it had done the night they’d met. Leaves and branches rustled in its wake; Sam’s skirt whipped tight against her legs; and the rope swayed, too suddenly and too dramatically for one of its anchors to take.

  Crack and the branch parted from the tree. The bedsheet hissed through the air as one end fell. Sam cried out, falling too through the night sky, her face as white as any star. She flung up her arms, scrabbling for purchase on nothing. She fell.

  Talathan, his mind full of oaths and prayers from a thousand sources, at first didn’t even feel the weight of her in his arms. He was certain of nothing and sick with it, the very ground swaying beneath him. The wind shrieked again.

  “Jesus,” said Sam, and clung to him.

  Matter became matter again, and the world was solid. He held her; he hadn’t failed her; she lived. Talathan clutched Sam close to him, felt the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as she panted in relief, and knew his own breath was no slower. He buried his face in her hair and closed his eyes.

  Finding words to speak was an effort. “You—are well?”

  “Yeah?” She flexed muscles, tested her body. “Yeah. We’d better get going, though.”

  Reluctantly, Talathan let her go. She picked up the purse she’d dropped out the window earlier, hung it around her arm, and, to his pleased surprise, took his hand with the same thoughtless certainty.

  They moved quietly and quickly through the low grass and turned the corner of the house. Nearby, the road led off toward the highway: their goal. No other lights had gone on; there’d been no other sound from the reverend’s household.

  Then a human figure dashed around the opposite corner, saw them, and stopped short.

  * * *

  This was a hell of a standoff.

  They faced each other across a few feet of watered grass and a gravel driveway: Sam and Talathan on one side, and on the other a buxom female form Sam recognized as the dark-haired maid, June. Her eyes were wide, white showing in the darkness. One hand covered her mouth.

  “Seems,” said Sam in a low voice, “like you got your evening off anyhow, huh?”

  June blinked. “You! I—”

  “This is where you say you always knew there was something fishy about me,” said Sam. She did her best to sound cool. Her hands were sweating.

  Richards and his wife didn’t sleep too lightly, from what Sam could tell. Still she bet a good scream would wake them up. She could probably make up a story if she needed to, but it’d be a tricky thing—and it’d mean staying longer.

  In half an hour, Richards was going to be in possession of a sheet of his own stationery, on which Sam had written out the Bible verse about Jesus throwing the moneylenders out of the temple and the one saying that a camel could go through the eye of a needle faster than a rich man could get into Heaven. (She’d had to look up the exact wording, but she still remembered a couple things from Sunday school.) He’d also have a necklace of shiny glass beads, probably worth a whole dollar if he took it to the right place.

  Sam wanted to be well out of the city limits before the reverend discovered either of those things.

  She watched June. June watched her and Talathan. The elf kept an eye on them both. Sam thought he’d back any move she made. Strategically, it was probably best if he knocked the girl out.

  A real owl flew across the sky, hunting prey. Its cry blended with the wind.

  “No,” June said, and at first Sam didn’t remember what she was saying no to. “I’d’ve liked you a lot better if I had.”

  Their eyes met. There in the dark, on the edge of the road, both women started laughing, their shoulders shaking and their hands pressed to their mouths as they tried to stay quiet. Sam glanced over at Talathan as she calmed down, and saw that he was smiling as well.

  Sam opened her purse and the envelope inside, drew out three bills, and held them out. “Here. You had a tip coming from the start.”

  There weren’t any flies on June. She took the cash, then gaped. Sam understood: sixty bucks would go a long way. “You just bought yourself one set of sealed lips, sister.”

  “Cheap at twice the price,” Sam replied. “And listen—share that out however you want, but if I was any of you, I’d spend some of it on a bus ticket. That guy gives me the creeps.”

  “I’ll think about it,” said June.

  She might. Whatever she did, though, and whatever she decided, Sam had done all she could manage. “Let’s all scram, then,” Sam said, and did as she suggested.

  At the end of the driveway, with the highway winding away into the hills, she looked back over her shoulder. All the lights of the Richards house were still dark—except in her room, at the back of the house—and she didn’t hear any noise. That’d have to do.

  Talathan still clasped her hand firmly in his. The touch felt right. Him being there by her side felt right, too. Sam knew she’d have wanted him there if he’d been as weak as watered beer and as slow as molasses in January, if he couldn’t even turn a dollar into four quarters.

  The blacktop was smooth beneath her feet. They walked quickly, pacing themselves, and Sam looked up at the stars.

  Ante up, sweetheart. You’ve got to pay if you want to play.

  “So,” she said, “you did great. I couldn’t have asked for more help. And I’m willing to say you’ve paid off your debt, or whatever it is, but I’ve got a question first.”

  “And a great deal of caution to go with it,” he said, “again.”

  “I’m always careful when it’s important. When you’re done here, do you have to go home?”

  He turned his head, and his eyes glinted silver-green down at her. “No,” he said, with the beginnings of a smile. “I shouldn’t use my powers very freely, but I can live where I like.”

  “Would you like to?” She said it fast. “Not that I know where I’ll end up, you understand. Or what I’ll end up doing. But I’d kind of like to have you around for it, if you’d want that.” Sam cleared her throat, which didn’t dislodge her heart any. “That is to say, I’d really want to have you around. And I’ll try not to get us arrested. If you’re up for it.”

  Talathan stopped walking. As Sam turned to face him, he slowly lifted her hand to his lips. “My lady,” he said, and when he lowered her hand the smile crossed his whole face and filled his eyes.

  The wind was at their backs, and the road was outlined in starlight. It was a good night for a walk.

  From Isabel

  * * *

  Thanks very much for reading! I’ve always wanted to write something with an elf hero—early exposure to Tolkien and Salvatore left its mark on me—and the 1930s are a fascinating time period: a part of American history when it seemed like everything was turning against people, but also a time of immense change and innovation, both good and bad. I also really enjoy con artist stories, particularly when the victim has it coming—and so I had a great time writing Raising the Stakes.

  You can find my books at: http://www.amazon.com/Isabel-Cooper/ or by searching for Isabel Cooper at sourcebook
s.com: I also have a profile on the Sourcebooks site, if you’re curious about me. On my blog at isabelcooper.wordpress.com, I post about new books, promo deals, book tours, and occasionally my views on various sorts of fiction.

  I live in Boston, mostly make an honest living, and have been known to win a few hands of Texas Hold’Em, though I’ve gained nothing but M&Ms in the process.

  More Books by Isabel

  * * *

  Englefield Series

  No Proper Lady

  Lessons After Dark

  Highland Dragons Series

  Legend of the Highland Dragon

  The Highland Dragon’s Lady

  Night of the Highland Dragon

  * * *

  No Proper Lady

  * * *

  When a half-naked woman suddenly appears on his country estate, Simon Grenville doesn't have time to be shocked. Demonic beasts are hot on his heels until the beautiful stranger unsheathes several knives strapped to her skin-tight trousers and kills them. As he stares at her fierce, heart-stopping face, Simon knows he's in a hell of a lot of trouble...

  Joan is from a time where demons run rampant and humanity is fighting for its existence. To prevent this terrible future, she is sent back to Victorian England to kill the magician responsible for unleashing the dark forces. But Joan is a soldier more used to sparring than dancing. To get close to her target, she'll need Simon to teach her how to fit into polite society. Joan doesn't mind practicing proper flirtation on Simon, but she can't allow herself to be distracted by his gentle hands or devilish smile—the very future depends on it.

  Buy it now!

  Redeemed

  Molly O’Keefe

  The men of the West flock to watch the Northern Spy, a beautiful woman who sings…while locked in a cage. In every city, Helen’s alluring and mysterious act culminates in a high-stakes poker game. The winner's prize: a night with the Spy.

  Helen Winters’ life as a Union spy behind enemy lines was no act. But now that the war is over, her heroism has her trapped. Tortured by her memories and by the man who holds her prisoner, she clings to her dreams of freedom.

  Like Helen, Union battlefield surgeon Dr. James Madison lost the best parts of himself in the war. Haunted by the demons of an old addiction, he knows he's no hero, but Helen stirs to life the man he once was—and the man he could be again.

  He might win her. She might save him. Or perhaps they’ll both lose it all…

  Dedication

  * * *

  For Rose Lerner such an amazing writer, thank you for all your hard work and partnership on this anthology. So glad we had that twitter conversation!

  Chapter 1

  * * *

  November 1868

  Denver

  Living, for the past month, in a whorehouse, Dr. James Madison had grown used to a certain element of the fantastic.

  A layer of the theatrical lay over Delilah’s like a fine dust.

  The stage and the footlights.

  The girls with their costumes and dramas.

  Delilah with her feathers and beauty marks—an elaborate pretense to hide her fatally broken heart.

  The men who came in every night, to pretend for however much it cost that they could buy something that couldn’t be bought.

  A fleeting wet and warm shadow perhaps. But not the sustaining reality of it.

  This whole building and everything in it was a lie. A wish, perhaps. But false all the same.

  All that to say, James would have thought nothing could surprise him.

  But he stepped into the wide-open barroom of the whorehouse and stopped in his tracks.

  Icy snow slipped off the brim of his hat onto his bare neck. It hurt, that hot/cold brush of ice, but the pain was gone too fast.

  “What is that?” He pointed at the large domed object covered in a red velvet blanket that sat on the small stage in the middle of the room. Sunlight from the new windows turned the velvet blanket the color of blood. Rich and saturated.

  “That,” answered Kyle the bartender as he made the place ready for the night, loading fresh shells into the shotgun beneath the bar. There were other things he undoubtedly did as the barkeep of Delilah’s whorehouse, but that gun always seemed paramount. “Is a birdcage.”

  “What kind of bird is that big?”

  The cage was taller than James, so wide he would not be able to put his arms around it.

  “The human kind.”

  James stared at the red-haired man, who stared right back. Kyle made no effort to hide the fact that he didn’t like James. Which was fine; James didn’t much like himself.

  “If you’d been paying any attention. At all—” Kyle said.

  “I haven’t been.”

  James did not flinch at the censure in Kyle’s face. The man could judge him all he wanted.

  “The Northern Spy. The act?” Kyle said the words as if they were supposed to mean something. “The virgin. Jesus,” he muttered. “You are a self-absorbed son of a bitch.”

  “Yes, it would seem so, wouldn’t it?”

  For the years after the war, up until this very breath—and he imagined every single breath after this one—chloroform had ruled his life. Controlled his thoughts. Wanting it and not having it occupied every moment of his day now.

  He didn’t care about the birdcage or the Northern Spy. He couldn’t care about anything. Not now and maybe never again. He could not afford to.

  All he could do was want and not have. Crave and deny.

  It was all he was and could ever be again.

  He wasn’t a doctor or a man. He could never be a person’s friend again.

  Without another word he turned and went back out into the snow and the ice.

  It was dark when he came back. The snow had long since stopped and the sky had cleared. It was all stars and bright white moon over his head. The lights of Delilah’s, the laughter and the tinny piano, a woman’s warbled singing—Agnes, he thought, judging by the high notes. She had enthusiasm but not much skill.

  All of it, the light the sound—the life—spilled out the doors onto the dirty snow of Market Street. The street was busy despite the hour and the weather, thanks to the saloons and Delilah’s. He recognized a few of the men stumbling past him in the dark, fewer than he should. Patients at one time or another.

  He went around the back and the cats came out from their hidey holes to greet him, curling around his ankles like he had something to give them.

  The smallest one, the calico with an ornery temperament, he scooped up in his hands.

  “You haven’t been taking care of that wound like I told you.” He tilted what was left of the cat’s ear, running his thumb over the stitches he’d given her. They were oozy. “You get an infection and you’re going to lose the whole ear.”

  The cat bit his thumb in response.

  “Treating animals?” a voice asked out of the darkness, and he flinched, squeezing the cat so hard she hissed.

  “Sorry,” he breathed. To the animal and the woman behind him.

  Every muscle fired, every instinct screamed. Run. Run away.

  But he’d been walking all day every day, and he didn’t have much strength past the initial instinct.

  And the truth was he couldn’t avoid her forever. Denver was small.

  James put the cat down and faced one of his worst mistakes. His bloodiest regret.

  Annie Denoe stepped from the shadows into a slice of moonlight just outside the back door of the whorehouse. The larger shadow behind her proved to be Steven Baywood. The blond man’s eyes were glittering and hard, and the way he lingered at the edge of Annie’s shoulder told a certain story about their relationship. James had heard the rumor about Annie and Steven from the whores inside, but they were notorious for rumors.

  But this one, it seemed, was true.

  Annie and Steven were in love.

  Good. He shoved his shaking hands into his pockets. That is a good thing. Annie and Steven. She’d loved that
man for a long time. And Annie deserved to be happy.

  Before that night with the madman and the blood, James had asked Annie to marry him. He’d asked her to marry him because he admired her. Because he didn’t know how else to keep her safe with the outrageous arrangement they had concocted between them.

  But mostly he’d asked her to marry him because she had money and he had a chloroform mania.

  The shame was acidic, boiling in his gut.

  She did not belong with the likes of James. But the proposal had had the benefit of forcing Steven into action.

  “Annie,” he said, dipping his head slightly with his thin brand of cordiality. At least his voice was even. “Steven. Nice to see both of you.”

  Annie kept walking toward him, past what was polite until she was only a few inches away. The tip of her cane punched a hole in the snow right next to his boot. The loud snap of it made him flinch.

  She leaned forward, and the moonlight caught the edge of her glasses and obliterated her eyes, which—he wasn’t going to lie—was a relief.

  Annie’s eyes had always been too sharp. Too clear. Too able to see right through everything.