by Lisa Cooke
“Nonsense. I’m glad Dyer found a lady like you to keep him in line.”
“Oh, I’m not Mr. Straights’s lady,” she corrected. “We only just met a couple of days ago.”
“Really?” Newt’s eyes twinkled even in the darkness, and the subtle wrinkles at the corners proved they were no strangers to smiling. The gray at the temples of his dark hair gave him a distinguished look that went well with his expensive suit and the sparkling diamond stickpin in his cravat.
“How do you know him?” she asked.
“I met him when he first came to the riverboats to gamble. He came aboard the Robert E. Lee with a chip on his shoulder and something to prove.”
“Did he win?” she asked.
Newt chuckled. “No, he lost miserably, and I probably should have let him leave, but I felt sorry for him, I guess. So I gave him some lessons.”
“You taught Dyer to play poker?” It hadn’t dawned on her until that moment that someone had taught Dyer the game. She had just assumed he was born with the knowledge or found it in the bottom of a bottle . . . of one kind or another.
“Let’s just say, I improved his game a tad,” Newt said.
“I’ve tried to get him to teach me, but he absolutely refuses. He doesn’t think a woman should play poker.” She frowned. “At least that’s what he says, but I get the feeling there’s more to it than that.”
Newt shrugged. “With Dyer, there’s always more to it than that.”
“If you taught him to play, maybe you could teach me?”
“Why do you want to learn?”
She had no intention of telling Newt or anyone else about the blackmailer. If she did, they would want to know why she was being blackmailed, and that was a secret she had to take to her grave. “I need money, just like everyone else.” She gave Newt a look that she hoped would bring sympathy. Or at the very least, lessons. “The war was hard on my family.”
“So you need to win a great deal of money?”
She nodded. “Fifteen thousand dollars.”
He let out a low whistle. “Sounds like you need a mighty fine teacher.”
She smiled. “And since you taught Dyer to play, you must be the best teacher on the river.”
“I taught Dyer how to play, and then he taught me how to lose.”
“Dyer beats you?” she asked, disappointed that the perfect solution to her problem eluded her once again.
“Regularly.”
“But if you taught him, surely you know the game better.”
“There’s more to poker than knowing the game. You have to know your opponent and be willing to play without fear.” He faced her in the darkness. “You see, my dear, Dyer doesn’t care whether he wins or loses. That makes him unpredictable and very dangerous . . . in more ways than one.”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
“That’s obvious.” Newt smiled. “But I tell you what, Lottie . . .” He stopped. “May I call you Lottie?”
“Only if I can call you Newt.”
“Well, Lottie, I promise I will use any influence I may have over Mr. Obediah Straights to persuade him to help you out.”
She beamed up at him. “Oh, thank you. You are a true gentleman.”
“Or something like that,” he said with a wink. Newt waited to chuckle until Lottie walked around the corner of the deck and out of earshot.
“What’s so funny?” Sally asked, sidling up beside him at the rail.
“Dyer’s finally met his match.”
“With Lottie?” She made it sound like that was the most improbable thing in the world.
“Who else?”
Sally snorted, then patted the back of her hair. “I’ve known Dyer as long as you have, and I’ve never known him to sniff after a true lady. He avoids those at all cost.”
“And you think our new saloon girl is a true lady?”
Rolling her big brown eyes in his direction, she added another snort. “Don’t you?”
Of course he did, but teasing Sally was one of his favorite pastimes. “I don’t know. She’s wearing a mighty short skirt and working on a riverboat. Doesn’t sound genteel to me.”
Sally’s flippant manner stilled suddenly as she turned to stare over the rail and across the river. Her voice dropped to almost a whisper. “Sometimes a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.”
Newt wasn’t sure whether Sally was speaking to him or to the night. For a brief moment, her face softened to the girl he’d met twenty years ago. No face paint or henna-dyed hair, just laughter and ambition and passion. But before he could reach her, she whipped back to the tough lady she’d become. The one who could bring a man to his knees with a snap of her fingers.
“You mark my words, Newt Crawford,” she said, poking him in the chest with her finger. “If Dyer hurts that girl, he’ll pay dearly.”
Newt tried to imagine Sally hurting Dyer. She worried over him like a mother hen. “How are you going to make him pay?”
“I wouldn’t have to. He’d torture himself more than anyone else ever could.”
“And you think he’s out to hurt Lottie?”
“No, not intentionally, but something tells me Lottie’s had enough hurt to last her, and Dyer heaping more on wouldn’t help her none.”
“Have you ever thought of the fact that Lottie might be good for Dyer?”
Sally paused for a moment to contemplate Newt’s question before shrugging. “I’m not sure any woman can get through to him. Lord knows, plenty have tried. But those have all been loose women, and they deserved no less. Lottie’s a true lady, and I don’t think she can handle a man like Dyer.”
The fact there’d been many women in Dyer’s bed was an understatement, but Newt wasn’t about to reinforce Sally’s opinion as he offered his arm to escort her through the warm summer night to her room.
He had no desire to argue with Sally, but he wasn’t willing to give up on Dyer either. Something about Dyer reminded Newt of himself, twenty years before. Empty, searching, questioning, and yet never finding what was missing in him. Newt gave up his search long ago, but Dyer still had a chance.
Neither spoke as they walked down the wooden deck to the passenger cabins. That was one of the nice things about keeping company with Sally. He didn’t have to talk if he didn’t want to, and she didn’t care if he didn’t.
Stopping just outside her door, he lifted her hand to his lips. “Good night, Miss Summerfield.”
Raising a perfectly arched brow, she eyed him suspiciously. “Since when do you call me ‘Miss Summerfield’? A title like that should be saved for a lady, and you of all people know I haven’t been one of those for quite some time.”
“That,” he said, placing a kiss on her cheek, “is a matter of opinion.”
He walked away thinking the world would probably be a better place if there were a few less true ladies and a few more Sally Summerfields.
Chapter Four
Lottie tied a towel around her waist and inhaled the aroma of the cup of steaming coffee she was to take to the table of the newest customer to enter the room. Lunchtime customers in the Belle’s restaurant were much quieter than the evening crowd that came to the gaming room on the deck above. Most of the people on the boat at this time of day were the guests currently staying on board, though a few local residents would happen in occasionally for a bite of lunch. The Belle was known for her rich coffee and amazing pecan pie.
Some of the girls worked in the restaurant during the noon meal in exchange for their lodging, though without their painted faces and garish gowns they were hard to recognize. Lottie felt much more comfortable in her ser viceable blue calico, which was a good thing since her comfort level was about to be put to the test in a matter of moments.
She set the cup on the table in front of her customer. “Coffee, Mr. Straights?”
Dyer looked up from his newspaper and grimaced. He seemed to do that a lot in her presence. “That depends. Do I need to fetch my hat or perhaps borrow an umbrel
la from someone?”
“Only if you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”
“I assure you, Miss Mace,” he said, lifting the cup in a mock toast. “I have no intentions of ever touching you again.”
“That should work well for both of us.”
“And my wardrobe.”
She winced. His suit was obviously expensive, and she hadn’t intended to ruin it with her actions, but at the time she was much more concerned with his hand than his clothing.
“Perhaps in the future you’ll be more careful about where you touch a lady.”
The gleam in his eyes brought a flush to her face. She could tell by the twist to his lip that he was about to say something, and knowing him, it would get him scolded for sure. Not a good way for her to mend fences, so before he had a chance to get himself into any more trouble, she asked, “What can I bring you for lunch?”
He paused for a second, probably deciding whether he wanted to take this salvation or go ahead and say what he’d been thinking. Luckily, his wiser side prevailed.
“Breakfast,” he answered, then took a sip of his coffee and returned his attention to his paper.
Lottie sighed a little in relief. It was probably best they not attempt polite conversation just yet, though they had never had a polite conversation to this point anyway. She went to the kitchen to tell the cook that Dyer wanted breakfast for lunch, which was not an unusual request since most of the gamblers slept until noon.
When she returned to the dining room, Newt was arriving. It was nice to see a friendly face for a change.
“Good morning,” he said, smiling as she set his coffee in front of him. “How are things today between you and um . . .” He pointed in Dyer’s direction.
She sighed. “Not good, I’m afraid. He’s still really mad at me.”
Newt chuckled. “You just need to give him a few days to cool off.”
“I can’t wait forever.”
“You need the money soon?”
She nodded. “In about five weeks.”
“Hmmm.” Newt rubbed his chin in thought. “Well then, I guess you’re just going to have to make it in his best interest that you learn the game.”
“His best interest? How do I do that?”
“Use your wits, Miss Mace. I have the feeling you have an overabundance of those anyway.”
Newt’s unfortunate choice of words played over and over in Lottie’s mind as she tried to take a nap before the evening crowd arrived aboard the Belle. Use your wits, Miss Mason, the blackmailer had advised. A week had passed, and a solution still eluded her.
Maybe she needed to borrow someone else’s wits.
She sat up in her bunk and wiped her hand across her perspiring brow. Even though she only wore her shift, the afternoon heat made it impossible to sleep, and the precious air that came through the tiny window of her cabin did little to help the situation.
She walked to the washstand and poured a generous amount of water into the bowl, grateful that the other ladies were out of the cabin for the time being and she had all the privacy she needed to take a thorough sponge bath. She peeled off her damp shift and washed every inch of her body, making a mental note to fetch more water from the river so the others would be able to wash as well.
The cool water felt like heaven. She rinsed out her shift in the remaining water and laid it across the end of her bunk. It would take a couple of days for it to dry in the humid air on the river, but she had another to wear in the meantime.
She began the arduous task of getting ready for the evening. It had been three days since she’d dumped the glass of whiskey over Dyer’s head—more than enough time to get over his anger. She’d been careful to stay out of his path in the meantime. But she couldn’t afford to wait any longer.
Lottie piled her hair on top of her head, then applied her face paint, with a much more conservative hand than Sally had, before wriggling into her dress.
“Well, Mr. Obediah Straights,” she mumbled to her image in the mirror. “Here we go again.”
Five Card Draw was Dyer’s favorite game. He liked the fact no one knew what cards anyone else held until the very end. It required guts and a cool edge, and normally no one was cooler than he.
Normally.
But for some reason, the last few days had him more edgy than cool. It could be the heat, but he doubted it. It was most likely that insufferable woman who avoided him lately like he had fleas.
Not that he minded, of course. Lord knew the last thing he needed was her continual yapping about wanting lessons. He shouldn’t even be thinking about her, but damn, if that short green dress didn’t hug her in all the right places.
He waited until the dealer gave each of the players his five cards before he picked up his hand, slowly fanning it open to reveal a club flush. The excitement he would usually feel for receiving such an amazing hand in a game like Draw was sidetracked when Lottie entered the room. She walked from table to table, asking the men if they wanted anything, laughing prettily at one comment or another. Her eyes sparkled far too much. If she wasn’t careful, one of those men might get too drunk to realize she was off limits.
He jerked his gaze back to his cards. This hand could win big, and his lack of focus wasn’t doing him any good.
“Raise,” he said, flipping his chips into the pot and glancing up to see Lottie casually making her way closer to his table.
She’d done something different with her hair. Little curls fell around her face and a few even spilled to her shoulders, which were exposed much more than they needed to be.
He took a deep breath, forcing his attention back to the game. Three players had already folded, leaving him and three others still in play. One of those was an accomplished cheat who knew better than to try to swindle Dyer, but it would still pay to keep a close eye on him.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Lottie’s voice brought smiles from the men at the table . . . well, most of them at least. “Would anyone like a drink?”
Dyer was careful not to make eye contact as he ordered a whiskey and pretended to contemplate his hand. Another round of betting raised the stakes even higher and saw a fourth man fold. Now the big money would start hitting the table. It was Dyer’s turn to bet or fold. He rubbed his chin in an apparent decision-making crisis when Lottie returned with their drinks.
“Why, isn’t that the cutest thing?” she said from over his shoulder. “All your cards match.”
“Fold,” the other players said simultaneously, quickly throwing their cards to the center of the table.
A low growl erupted from somewhere deep inside his gut. He glared at Lottie, not trusting himself to speak.
Batting her eyes like a paragon of innocence, she said, “Did I say something wrong?”
Dyer stood and silently pointed to the door. She sighed and headed toward the exit while he took a few breaths to calm himself before following. By the time he made it to the deck, he was no longer seeing red, but he was trying to determine whether he could lock her in a cabin for the remainder of the trip.
Her expression was a little too humble to be believable. “I guess I did something I shouldn’t have.”
“You could say that.”
“Well, it’s not my fault, really.”
This should be interesting. “And how, exactly, is this not your fault, Miss Mace?”
“If I knew how to play the game, I wouldn’t make such mistakes.”
Dyer knew a veiled threat when he heard one. He was known to have made a few himself. It wasn’t as though he couldn’t handle her, but three more weeks on the riverboat was too long to constantly watch out for the little vixen, and it was time to put an end to this once and for all.
“All right, you win,” he said.
“Really?” A smile broke across her face. “You’re going to teach me?”
He nodded.
“Oh how wonderful! You won’t regret it—I swear you won’t. Why, as soon as I start winning, you’ll get a per
centage of my money. Of course we’ll need to come up with some agreement on how much—”
Dyer stopped her with a shake of his head. “I don’t want or need your money, Miss Mace.”
She gasped. “You’ll do it for free? Oh, I knew somewhere inside you there was a true gentleman—”
His shaking head stopped her once again. “I didn’t say there would be no payment, just that I don’t want money.”
Her smile dropped, and a wary expression took its place. “What exactly do you want, Mr. Straights?”
He walked to her and lifted a curl from her shoulder, allowing it to wind around his finger. Her eyes grew bigger. He stepped close enough to see the pulse beating wildly in her throat before he leaned down to brush his lips against her temple.
“I’ll teach you to play,” he whispered, “if you’ll spend a night in my bed.” He ended his demand with a kiss on her ear before he stood back, feeling rather smug.
There was no way little Miss Prim and Proper would agree to such a scandalous demand, but from this point on, any time she bothered him about lessons, he could remind her that a deal was on the table. It was perfect.
He waited for her response, bracing himself for another right hook. Instead, she stood stunned with shock, staring at him as though she couldn’t believe what he’d just proposed.
Then she regained her composure with a lift of her chin and said, “Agreed.”
Dyer froze. “You agree?” What the hell?
“Yes.” She nodded, glancing away from him. “Under one condition.”
Dyer stepped back from her to lean against the rail. Something told him he’d better brace himself for this. “And what might that be?”
“I only pay you if I win the tournament in St. Louis. If I don’t win, then you weren’t much of a teacher, were you?”
He should refuse. It would give him the perfect out, but there was something about the cocky little tilt to her head and her implied challenge that forced his mouth to overtake his brain. “Agreed.”
“Good, we’ll start in the morning.”
And with that, she left him standing on the deck, wondering at exactly what point he’d lost control over this situation.
