by Lisa Cooke
Texas
Hold Him
Lisa Cooke
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
For my beautiful sister, Jan, the bravest woman I have ever known.
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Chapter One
New Orleans, July 1870
To the good folk of the world, God gave a conscience. To everyone else, evidently, he gave a gun.
“Don’t turn around.”
An unnecessary command if ever there was one. Charlotte Mason slowly raised her hands and forced herself to swallow the bile creeping up her throat. She knew meeting a blackmailing lunatic in an abandoned stable would be dangerous. But what choice did she have?
“Did you bring the money?” the cold, hard voice behind her asked.
“I—I don’t have that kind of money.”
The man snorted derisively. “You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? The Masons are richer than Midas.”
“Before the war, perhaps, but the Yankees destroyed everything we had.” A trickle of perspiration rolled between her breasts.
“What about your plantation?”
“Burned to the ground, and the small house we live in wouldn’t bring near what you’re asking.”
She heard him shuffling his feet on the dirt behind her and suspected he was contemplating his options now that his blackmailing plans had gone awry. If there were a shred of decency in this man, he’d realize he’d picked the wrong mark and leave her in peace.
But evidently, decency had gone by the way of the war. He shoved the hard steel of his gun’s barrel into her back, its edge biting even through the stays of her corset. Carefully, she laid her hand against Momma’s locket and willed it to give her strength.
“Then you’d better ask your rich friends for the money, or your precious daddy is going to pay for what he did.”
“You’re too late,” she said with feigned confidence, “the charges were dropped against Daddy because there was no evidence.”
“The evidence is standing right behind you, sweetheart. I saw your daddy commit that murder, and if you don’t give me the money, I’m going to tell everyone who’ll listen.”
She forced her throat to work as her fear squeezed harder. “I don’t believe you.”
“Why don’t you ask him?” He asked the question with a snide tone, then laughed at his little joke. “Oh, sorry. You can’t ask him, can you? I’ve heard his mind isn’t what it used to be.”
She chose not to respond. Her father had faced the murder charges when he was away. By the time he returned home, he’d suffered an apoplexy, leaving his mind as weak as his body.
Her assailant shoved the gun harder against her spine. “If you don’t get me the money, your daddy will hang. You wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for that, would you?”
For once in her life, she had nothing to say.
“Would you?” he repeated.
“No,” she whispered, her mouth suddenly going dry. Daddy was all she had left. She had to protect him. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
“I’ll give you six weeks to get the money.”
“Six weeks? You can’t be serious! Where am I supposed to get that kind of money in such a short time?”
“Use your wits, Miss Mason. After all, the Lord helps those who help themselves.”
Charlotte stepped into the foyer of the small home she shared with her father and aunt, grateful that her hands had finally quit shaking. No servant came to help her with her hat, but there hadn’t been servants in her household for more than five years now. Surprising, really, how that life seemed to belong to another.
Slipping the pin from her bonnet, she placed it on the table in the hallway and dared a glance in the mirror. A haggard face stared back at her, forcing her to snap up her chin. She couldn’t allow her family to see the strain she felt.
Failure.
Such an ugly word, but the only one that came to mind when she thought of her morning. She’d left the stable and raced to the homes of everyone she knew in New Orleans with any wealth at all, but for the good it had done her, she might as well have been picking daisies. None was willing to lend such a large sum of money. They claimed they didn’t have the funds, but she knew they were lying. She could see it in their eyes. She’d always been good at reading people, though now she wasn’t sure whether her ability was a gift or a curse. Of course, Charlotte couldn’t really blame them. The war had left many in ruins, and the Masons had been ruined more than most.
“Did you enjoy your morning, dear?” Aunt Dorothy asked, walking into the foyer.
Charlotte forced a smile as she patted a tendril of hair back into her chignon. Upsetting Aunt Dorothy would serve no purpose. “Why yes. I’ve had a very interesting morning.” At least it wasn’t a total lie. Meeting with an unknown blackmailer in an abandoned stable was far from boring.
“Your father has been asking for you, and I didn’t know why you were gone so long.” Charlotte knew Dorothy’s comment wasn’t intended to chastise—it was simply her way of watching over her brother, and Charlotte couldn’t complain about that. Without Dorothy’s help, taking care of her father would’ve been almost impossible.
With a flutter of her hand, Charlotte headed toward her father’s room. “It was nothing important. I simply ran into some old friends and stopped for a chat.”
Harold Mason sat by an open window, a slight breeze stirring the otherwise stifling air. Rheumy eyes turned toward her as she took a seat beside him. It never failed to break her heart, seeing what was left of her once active and healthy father. The wheeled chair seemed to scream at her, and the shawl across his lap did little to hide the bony legs beneath.
“How are you this morning, Daddy?”
A cool, frail hand reached to her, and she clutched it in her own. “I’m just fine, Lottie. I’m thinking about going out to check on the crops in a little bit.”
Patting his hand, she forced a smile. This was one of those mornings. Often, her father’s mind forgot his body was no longer capable and the crops no longer existed. But maybe that was for the best. His memories of what used to be were better than the nothing that was left.
“I think you’d better wait until tomorrow. It looks like it might rain, and you know that silly horse of yours doesn’t like the mud.” She hoped the carpetbagger who’d stolen him ended up on his backside.
Daddy’s mouth turned up in a lopsided grin. “I need to get me another as soon as the crops come in.”
Stroking his hand, she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek. “I think that’s a fine idea, but for right now, how about I hel
p you to bed for your nap?”
He didn’t argue. He never did. Arguing would require a quickness that didn’t often make an appearance.
Getting her father settled into bed was easier each day, partly because she learned new tricks, but mostly because his body seemed to shrink more every time she lifted him. However, thinking about that did no good. All her concentration had to focus on her newest dilemma. Fifteen thousand dollars was not likely to fall from the sky.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
A ghastly sum if ever there was one. He might as well have asked for a million, her chances of getting either amount being about the same. She sighed and fought the despair that had thrummed through her all day like a toothache. It was time to visit her thinking tree.
The ancient oak tree filled much of the backyard of their small town house. Living on the outskirts of the city had some advantages. Traveling in to the shops didn’t take as long as the trip from the plantation used to, but the close neighbors she could’ve done without. If it weren’t for her tree and its little bench, tolerating the move would’ve been much more difficult.
She sighed and dropped onto the bench, thinking she’d done a lot of sighing lately, and maybe her energy would be better spent elsewhere.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
“Momma?” She clutched the golden locket she wore around her neck, her only link to the mother she had never known. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and Charlotte longed for her guidance every day. “What should I do?” Maybe, just this once, Momma would answer.
“Yoo-hoo, Charlotte?” called a woman from the side yard.
Charlotte flinched. For a second she had thought . . . how silly. Momma wouldn’t yell from the side yard and wouldn’t be caught out in public in the tacky dress Eloise Carmichael evidently felt was suitable enough to wear about town. Maybe Eloise didn’t own a mirror.
With a twirl of her bright pink umbrella, Eloise continued sashaying across the yard. Charlotte hoped the woman wouldn’t ask to share the bench. All that pink taffeta and lace might scare away the songbirds currently perched in the branches overhead. Then again, it might attract a few of the males.
Charlotte glanced toward the door to the house. Too far away to make a dash for it—and not very ladylike either. Sigh.
“Good morning, Eloise. What brings you by today?” Charlotte braced herself for the onslaught. Asking Eloise a question was like priming a pump.
“Well, I was walking about enjoying the lovely afternoon when I thought to myself, I wonder what Charlotte Mason is doing today, so I decided I’d come over and see for myself. I should have known you’d be out under this lovely old tree, though it’s not the same as Live Oak Plantation, is it?”
Despite her earnest efforts, Charlotte’s mind drifted as Eloise continued to jabber. How typical of Eloise to remind Charlotte that for once in their lives, Eloise’s family was better off than the Masons. Not that it mattered at the moment. Fifteen thousand dollars—that was what mattered.
“. . . then there was all that money on the table.”
Money? Charlotte’s mind snapped back to Eloise’s prattle. “All what money?”
Eloise sighed, obviously perturbed by Charlotte’s lack of attention. “I was telling you about Percival Monroe taking me to the Magnolia Belle riverboat last night to watch the gamblin’ and I saw a man lose five thousand dollars on one hand of cards. Five thousand dollars! Can you imagine that?”
“Who won the money?” Charlotte cut in.
“What? Oh, that was the most interesting thing of all. A big Texan, handsome as sin, which is fitting seeing as how he makes his money, sinning and all.”
“What was his name?” Charlotte interrupted again. She hated sounding impatient, but keeping Eloise on track was like trying to keep ants in a bowl.
“Name? Hmmm.” Eloise tapped her pink fan against her chin in thought. Charlotte didn’t think the question was all that difficult. Then again, she’d asked Eloise several questions in the last few minutes, and the girl’s mind probably wasn’t used to all that thinking.
“I remember now. It’s Straights. Obediah Straights, but I think he goes by Dyer. Why?”
Charlotte’s thoughts drifted away again. Five thousand dollars on one hand of cards. Three of those would earn her enough money to pay the blackmailer and save her daddy. Of course, she didn’t know anything about cards. A lady of proper upbringing wasn’t exposed to such a thing. But how long could it possibly take to learn? With a master like Obediah Straights teaching her, it shouldn’t take long at all.
“What game were they playing?” she asked, ignoring Eloise’s previous question.
“On the boat? Why, poker, of course.”
The pungent aroma of the river filled the air as Charlotte tipped her head back to look at the three stories of the magnificent Magnolia Belle docked at the wharf. The twin smokestacks jutted from the front of the boat like huge black timbers reaching for the sky, though currently no smoke curled from their fluted tops. The morning sun lit up the white deck rails and the huge red paddle wheel at the back.
Charlotte had already learned from one of the dockworkers that Mr. Straights lived in one of the cabins on the boat. She had told her family she would be away for about a week visiting an old friend. That should be plenty of time to learn a simple card game and win the money she needed to protect her father. Now she just needed a pseudonym to protect her family from any scandal her gambling might cause.
If only she had a new gown to wear so Mr. Straights wouldn’t think she was destitute, but this was her best and it would just have to do. The little money her family had went for more important things than finery. She adjusted her bonnet ribbon under her chin and tucked her ever-escaping curl back into her bun before she headed up the ramp to board the boat and find the Texan’s cabin.
“Excuse me?” she asked a freckle-faced boy who mopped the deck. “Could you please tell me where I could find Mr. Obediah Straights’s cabin?”
The boy stopped his mopping and grinned at her. “You mean Dyer?”
“I believe he goes by that, yes.”
“Up two decks. Cabin ten, but I don’t think you want to go up there.”
She pursed her lips. “I need to speak with him, and I don’t have time to wait for him to come to me.”
The boy chuckled and returned to his mopping. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Charlotte headed for the stairs, her stride filled with purpose. Who cared if Mr. Straights hadn’t properly groomed for the day or his cabin was a mess?
She walked across the deck, reading the numbers on the red cabin doors until she came to cabin ten. A deep breath helped to calm the butterflies in her stomach. She hated the thought of knocking on a strange man’s door, but she didn’t have enough time for a proper introduction. A riverboat gambler probably wouldn’t recognize the impropriety anyway. She rapped lightly on the door and waited . . . and waited.
“Hmmm,” she muttered before knocking a little harder and adding, “Mr. Straights? Are you in there?”
A grumbled curse sounded from inside the cabin, but again, no one answered her knock. She took her reticule and thumped it loudly against the door. “Mr. Straights, I need a word with you—”
Suddenly the door jerked open, and she found herself face to face, or more accurately, face to chest, with a very tall, half-naked man. He stood before her barefooted and wearing only a pair of trousers he hadn’t even bothered to fasten all the way. They rode low on his hips, and his flat, muscular belly drew far more attention than she should have permitted.
She took a step back and forced her gaze up to his face. There was simply too much bare skin in her direct line of vision to deal with at this hour of the morning. But no matter how much she tried, her eyes flickered to the smooth hard muscles on display before her, as though proper decorum no longer existed.
He ran his hand through his black hair and glared down at her with eyes equally as dark. His scowl cou
ld have scared the stripe off a skunk.
“Well?” he asked, with a deep Texas drawl that had the potential to be pleasant, but most likely not in this century.
She cleared her throat, forcing her voice not to show how his near nakedness affected her. What kind of gentleman would open a door in that state?
“Are you Mr. Obediah Straights?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Well.” She flashed her brightest smile and willed her voice not to shake. “I need a word with you if you would please get dressed and meet me in the lounge?”
He held his hand up to stop her. “I’m sorry, Miss . . . ?”
“Mace. Miss Lottie Mace.” She smiled, pleased that the perfect pseudonym popped into her head.
“Miss Mace,” he repeated, without the smile. “I find it interesting that you would like to speak with me, but I happen to be busy at the moment and have no desire to get un-busy.”
Lottie stared at the closed door in her face. “Well, I never,” she muttered, looking around for something more substantial to strike on the door.
A small ax leaned against the side of the cabin. She picked it up and hefted its weight, debating only a moment about smashing it through the door. Instead, she took a deep breath, grasped the head firmly with both hands and swung the handle side into the wood. It made a loud noise, sounding surprisingly like a gunshot as it slammed into good old number ten.
“What the hell?” He jerked open the door with another scowl that would have made the skunk do more than just lose its stripe.
Luckily, she wasn’t a skunk.
She squared her shoulders and lowered the ax. “As I said, I have a business proposition to discuss with you.”
He folded his arms across his chest and casually leaned against the doorframe. His burning gaze raked slowly up her body. The intimacy of it made her heart pound and a blush heat her cheeks. By the time his eyes reached hers, her mind was numb.
“Well, princess,” he drawled, the shadow of a beard adding a dangerous touch to the already wicked curl of his lip. “I’m not one to normally turn down a proposition offered by a beautiful woman, but my bed happens to be already occupied.”
