by Lisa Cooke
“Dyer? Are you coming back, honey?” cooed a voice from behind him.
Dyer stepped aside to allow Lottie a glimpse into his room and the tousled lady who shared his bunk. “You’ll just have to wait your turn, sweetheart.” He winked at Lottie and closed the door.
Speechless.
Not a word most would associate with Charlotte Mason. Yet not a single solitary retort came to mind. Amazing, really.
She dropped the ax and returned down the steps to the lower deck, too shocked to react. The more she walked, the more the shock changed to anger and the anger to fury. By the time she reached the first deck her mind returned, and she thought of at least fifty things she wished she’d said.
The mopping boy grinned up at her as she walked by. “Told ya,” he teased, proving one didn’t need a great deal of intelligence to mop a deck.
She started to give him a piece of her mind but decided if she was going to deal with Mr. Obediah Straights, perhaps she needed to keep all of it.
“What time will the gamblers most likely begin their games?” she asked.
“’Bout seven or eight to night,” he answered, still grinning as she turned away.
“Well, Mr. Straights,” she muttered under her breath. “I think it’s time you learned a lesson or two yourself.”
Chapter Two
Dyer flipped open his gold watch to check the time before returning it to the pocket of his red silk vest. Eight o’clock. The penny ante games would’ve started about an hour ago. The serious gamblers, however, would just now be boarding the boat. Time to make his entrance into the gaming room.
He tugged at the cuffs of his white shirt before brushing a non ex is tent speck of dust off the sleeve of his black jacket. His suit cost more money than most of the sorry lot who came aboard would earn in a year. But he had an image to maintain, and there was nothing of value he needed to spend his fortune on anyway.
The glare of the setting sun on the muddy waters of the Mississippi left an orange trail streaking across the river. It would be dark in a few moments, and that suited Dyer just fine.
Dark was his most comfortable place to be.
“Dyer, honey?” The syrupy voice of the woman he’d slept with the night before pulled his thoughts back from a maudlin place as she sidled up beside him and slipped her arm through his.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Maybe his wink would hide the fact he couldn’t remember her name. “Decide you wanted to come back for another night of adventure?”
She batted her blue eyes prettily, as women were wont to do in his presence, slid her hand inside his jacket and pressed it possessively against his chest. “Well, sugah, I just love to watch the games, and you are so good at them. Of course, my momma would have an absolute fit of the vapors if she knew I was here.”
Dyer gently pulled her hand from under his coat, disguising the removal by holding it in his own. He was not now, nor would he ever be this woman’s possession. He winked at the little socialite, thinking her momma would have more than just vapors if she had any idea her precious Southern belle was such a hellcat in bed.
“If you’ll excuse me, darlin’, I need to go inside and earn my keep.” With a tip of his hat, the way any proper Southern gentleman would do, he walked the short distance across the deck to the doors of the gaming room.
He didn’t look back to see if . . . what’s her name . . . realized he’d just dismissed her. She probably didn’t. Those spoiled little rich girls never believed he was only interested in them for the short haul. Life had left him with more complications than he could impose on any gal, spoiled or not, and she was better off without him.
The room glowed with the lights of the kerosene lanterns and the leftovers of the setting sun that poured through the open doors from the deck. A buzz of excitement already hummed through the air as an occasional voice talked and laughed above the general din of the crowd.
Saloon girls in their gaudy low-cut gowns wove their way through the tables, delivering drinks and advertising their wares to any of the interested patrons. Their knee-length skirts revealed shapely silk-clad calves that often distracted the less focused gamblers, making Dyer’s job a little easier.
He scanned the room for his first game. He wasn’t interested in the novices who came on board convinced they could earn their fortune in one night of gaming. They rarely had sufficient money to make it worth his time, but if they were unlucky enough to sit at his table, well . . . all’s fair in love and poker.
Dyer lit a cheroot and clamped it between his teeth, the curl of his smoke adding to the cloud already drifting across the room. He grinned. This was his world, a place where a man could live for hours on whiskey and excitement, and could go from king to peasant in the flash of a card. Here, the only thing he had to lose was money, and he didn’t give a rat’s ass about that anyway.
Dyer didn’t travel the rivers to find a fortune.
His search was much more personal.
His attention drifted to the area of the room where the high rollers usually played. Some of New Orleans’ finest sat in their fancy suits with their fat wallets, their cheeks already flushed from the heat in the room and perhaps a little too much whiskey.
Dyer sauntered over to an empty chair at the table. “You gentlemen mind if I join you?”
A heavy man with a perspiring brow and a smile that flashed around his cigar gestured toward the chair. “Of course not, sir, as long as you have enough to ante up.”
Dyer tipped his hat and removed his wallet. He fanned his thumb across the bills and pulled out his ante to pitch to the table. A careful glimpse of enough money to pique their interest always got him access to the best games.
“That be enough?” he asked, taking his place at the table.
The men chuckled and welcomed him to the game. They quickly introduced themselves around the table, ending with Dyer, but he gave only his first name on the off chance some may have heard of him. He had only been in New Orleans three days, but he’d had an uncanny run of good luck here, and news traveled fast.
“What’s the game?” He glanced around the table, quickly sizing up his opponents. No one he knew or would likely remember in the morning.
“It’s a new game called Texas Hold’em,” the man named Charles answered. “Heard of it?”
Puzzling his brow, Dyer pretended to think. “I’ve played it once or twice. I think I remember how.”
“Basically,” Charles explained, “you’re dealt two cards that you can use in any combination with the five cards the dealer lays on the table to make the best hand.”
“Yeah, I remember now.” Remember? Hell, he was a Texan.
He picked up the cards dealt him. A pair of jacks. Damn. Not a bad start, but he had to lose this one. It never set well with the others for him to start out winning. Lose two hands, win one and lose two more—then clean out their wallets. His victims never saw it coming.
He stayed in the game until the dealer laid the next four cards on the table, and the river card revealed another jack.
Damn.
He laid his cards facedown on the table and slid them toward the dealer. “Fold,” he said, with a slow shake of his head.
He watched with interest as the hand played out. The winner, with his whopping pair of eights, raked in his earnings. The others no doubt thought he studied the game, but in fact he studied them. Within thirty minutes, he knew the tells and playing styles of every man at the table.
Time to win.
He accepted his drink from the saloon girl, trying to remember if he’d slept with her. She sure acted like he had, but he couldn’t think about that right now. So far he’d lost more than he’d won, and he never ended the night in negative numbers. He picked up his hand, careful to mask all emotion from his face before he made his wager.
“Mr. Straights?” A frighteningly familiar voice caught his attention.
He grimaced and reluctantly looked up to the woman who stood by his shoulder. The crazy lady w
ho’d attacked his door that morning waited beside him with reticule in hand. They really needed to be more careful about whom they allowed aboard.
“Good evening, Miss Mace,” he said, surprised he remembered her name. “Back to wreak vengeance on another part of the boat? I’m told the paddle wheel has been a bit fresh lately.”
She squared her shoulders and raised her chin a notch. “I realize this morning you were a little preoccupied.” She blushed prettily and glanced away for just a second before continuing, “So I thought it would be more convenient to speak with you this evening.”
He lifted a brow. “Well, Miss Mace, as you can see, I’m busy right now as well. Maybe some other time.” He had no desire to get involved with someone’s Sunday school teacher, regardless of how pretty she was. He returned his attention to the game. Maybe his rudeness would put her off once and for all.
It didn’t.
“Then I shall wait.” She stepped back to stand against the wall just a few feet away from the table, directly in his line of vision.
He couldn’t help noticing how out of place she appeared, clutching her reticule in front of her like a lifeline to the world of decency. The dark blue dress she wore didn’t hide the lush curves of her body, despite its modest cut. Though it was of expensive materials, the slight wear indicated it had seen better days.
Her pretty face had no paint, nor did it need any. No glittering jewels flashed around her slender neck or adorned the curling blonde hair that had a tendril or two escaping from her chignon. Her demeanor bespoke a true Southern princess, probably dethroned by the war, now forced to consort with all sorts of lowlifes for some reason unbeknownst to him.
“Dyer? Are you in or out?”
Charles’s voice brought him back to the table with a start. How could he let his mind drift like that? Many men lost a fortune in that kind of concentration lapse, and he’d be damned if he’d be the next.
“Fold.” Time to take a moment to get his mind back into the game and away from the curvy angel with a mission.
“Gentlemen, I’ll be back shortly.” He pushed himself away from the table and intentionally walked away from Miss Lottie Mace.
Hell. He even remembered her first name.
Dyer stepped outside to the deck and took a deep breath of the warm night air to clear his thoughts.
“Mr. Straights?” her voice called from the door of the gaming room.
He sighed. The woman had the tenacity of a tick. Maybe if he let her speak her mind, she’d leave him the hell alone. He turned around and leaned against the rail, tipped back the brim of his hat with one finger, then folded his arms across his chest.
“Yes, Miss Mace. What is it you are so determined to speak to me about?”
She cleared her throat. “I need to employ you for a small ser vice.”
He raised his brows and turned up the corner of his mouth. “And what might that be?” he asked suggestively, hoping to scare her away.
“I need to learn to play poker, and I’ve been told you are the best on the river. Therefore, I would like to hire you to teach me.”
Evidently, Miss Mace didn’t scare easily.
“You want me . . .” he pointed to his chest, “to teach you . . .” he pointed to her chest, “to play poker?”
She smiled. “Yes.”
He snorted. “No.” Shoving off the rail, he headed back to the gaming room.
She grabbed his arm as he walked past her. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean as in ‘not yes.’ ” He couldn’t make it any plainer than that.
“Perhaps we could discuss this in the morning, when you’re feeling better.”
Apparently she had trouble understanding no. “Yes, let’s do that. How about noon?” He lifted her fingers from his sleeve and walked away, fighting to contain his grin.
“The nerve,” Lottie muttered, relieved that at least this time she wasn’t rendered speechless by the arrogant Texan as he left her alone on the deck. Before the war, no man would have walked away from her without a proper farewell. But then, what could she expect from a man with his occupation?
She’d barely recognized Mr. Straights when she’d searched the room earlier. The handsome, clean-shaven man in the expensive suit was a far cry from the grouchy disheveled one she’d met that morning at his door. At least, he was a far cry from disheveled. The grouchy part must be a permanent fixture.
She carefully watched her step as she teetered down the gangplank to the dock. As she was passing two boys at the foot of the ramp, she heard one say to the other, “We’ll be back in four weeks, and I’ll give you the rest of it then.”
“Excuse me,” she interrupted. “I couldn’t help but hear you say you’d be back in four weeks. Is the Belle leaving New Orleans?”
The kid nodded. “We’re heading for St. Louis.”
“Surely that doesn’t take four weeks,” she said.
“We’ll be stopping at different ports along the way for a few days. There’s a big poker tournament in St. Louis, and the Belle is picking up gamblers on her way.”
She couldn’t wait four weeks to win her money. That cut it too close to the blackmailer’s demands.
“Is Mr. Straights going too?”
“I would reckon so. He’s living on the Belle. Besides, I can’t imagine him passing up the chance to win twenty-five thousand dollars.”
Lottie gasped. “Twenty-five thousand dollars?”
“Yup,” he answered. “All the big gamblers will be there. It takes a thousand dollars just to enter.”
Her mind whirled through all the things she could do with twenty-five thousand dollars. She could pay the blackmailer and still have enough to take care of her father for years. Someone would win it at the tournament, and it might as well be her.
“What time will the Belle be leaving?”
He scratched his head. “The captain usually pulls anchor at dawn.”
So Mr. Straights had agreed to speak with her at noon because he knew he wouldn’t be here. It was an ungentlemanly thing to do if she’d ever seen one, but she needed his help. She could work on his gentlemanly things later.
Dawn. That gave her just enough time to rush home, give some explanation to her family, and make it back before the Belle left port. Luckily, Aunt Dorothy took excellent care of her father, giving no need for concern on that score. But there was that little issue of how she could afford passage.
Sigh.
It was going to be a long night. “Do you know whom I could speak to about seeking employment?”
Chapter Three
Dyer stood on the deck and watched as the good citizens of Baton Rouge boarded the Magnolia Belle. Some came to watch, but most came to play. He’d debated joining the gambling to night. The games of the evening before had gone well into the morning, and his cabin had been so hot he hadn’t gotten more than a few hours’ sleep. But as evening approached, he knew he would not sit this one out. If he didn’t join the crowd in the gaming hall, his mind filled the emptiness with its own visions.
And those he could do without.
Besides, he only had four weeks to study the other gamblers he would face in the tournament. Some of them he already knew, and more would arrive in St. Louis via other riverboats and such, but many of the best would be aboard the Belle and the Robert E. Lee.
“Well, if it isn’t Dyer Straights.”
Dyer turned to see Newt Crawford ambling toward him. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t let the lure of this tournament pass you by,” Dyer said.
Newt shrugged. “What else would an old gambler like myself do anyway?”
“You could take the fortunes you’ve won and buy a little spread. Isn’t it time you retired?”
Newt chuckled. “Is this the pot calling the kettle black?”
The shore across the river was wooded and wild, and even though nothing was visible in the forest, Dyer couldn’t stop his eyes from searching. Always searching. “I have no desire to stay
in one place for that long.”
“Still chasing demons?”
Sometimes having someone know him as well as Newt Crawford did was damned annoying. Dyer forced a half-hearted grin and answered, “Nah, just skirts.” He gestured to the gambling room with a tip of his hat. “I believe it’s time we make our entrance.”
Dyer stepped aside and allowed Newt to enter the room. Waiting for Newt to take a table first gave Dyer the perfect opportunity to select one on the other side of the room. He wasn’t afraid of Newt, but he tried not to be a fool whenever possible. His mind wasn’t sharp enough to night to play with the man who’d taught him the game.
Within the hour, the excitement of the room awakened the predatory juices in his blood. He had lost his two hands and won one, but the hayseed across from him had actually beaten him in the last three. That nonsense was about to end. He twisted his cheroot between his teeth and motioned for a whiskey, not taking his eyes off the game or his focus off the pot he was about to win.
“Here’s your drink, Mr. Straights.”
A glass of whiskey was set before him. “Thank you, honey, I really needed—” A glance up to thank the saloon girl found Lottie Mace looking down at him. “Shit.”
“Well,” she responded, “I wasn’t aware that was what you wanted, but I’m sure I can find you some if you’re dead set on it.”
“What in the hell are you doing here?”
“Mr. Straights?” one of the men in the game asked. “Are you in or out?”
Dyer bit down on his cheroot. He held a pair of aces, and even Lottie’s unexpected visit wasn’t going to blow this hand for him. He shoved his chips to the center of the table. “I’m all in.”
A quick glance from the corner of his eye saw Lottie leaving, and he cursed himself for noticing the infernal woman when so much money lay in the middle of the table. Normally he enjoyed this moment. The savoring of a coming victory, with the risk of knowing that someone might still have a better hand. But instead, he was impatient for the others to make their decisions, and the win, when it came, was tainted by his preoccupation with Miss Mace.
