by Lisa Cooke
She sat back away from him and cleared her throat. “So it’s not so much lying as masking your emotions?”
He smiled a slow smile. “They’re called ‘tells.’ ”
“What are called ‘tells’?”
“The subtle signals a man gives that tells what kind of hand he has. A certain way he frowns or rubs his chin. After a while, you can spot them and you know if your opponent is bluffing.”
He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “It’s very important that you mask your tells because, trust me, I’m not the only gambler who is aware they exist. You see, most people find it difficult to lie.”
“But you don’t?”
He winked at her. “I guess you’ll just have to find that out for yourself.”
She touched her paper to see if the ink was dry before she folded it and stuffed it into her reticule. She knew she was fidgeting to avoid replying to Dyer’s comment, but for the life of her, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. He had the unnerving ability to leave her fumbling for responses.
“When can we play a real game?” she asked, bringing the topic back to cards.
He gathered the cards and stood to replace them in the drawer. “We’ll discuss that after you learn today’s lesson.”
She left the table and walked quickly to the door. The room was getting a little too warm for her liking. “I’ll know it by tomorrow.”
He sauntered over and leaned against the wall beside the door. “I’ve no doubt you will. In the meantime, you need to work on your tells.”
“Wh—what do you mean?”
Placing his hand against her face, he drew his thumb across her lower lip before he leaned closely to her and whispered, “When you’re nervous, your lip trembles.”
She snapped her mouth shut. “I’ll be sure to watch for that.” She jerked open the door and left without bothering to check if there were witnesses to her escape.
Dyer chuckled as Lottie scrambled from his room to the relative safety of the outside world. He didn’t know why he enjoyed tormenting her so much. Perhaps it was the insanity. Which would serve her right, since she was the cause of it in the first place.
But now was not the time to ponder Lottie or her trembling lips. It had been months since his last visit to Natchez, and he hoped someone new had arrived with the information he needed. He lifted the mattress on his bed and removed his holster and gun. He’d need to be well armed for some of the places he intended to visit.
The gun belt fitted comfortably around his hips, and the leather strip around his thigh was all too familiar. Someday he would put his gun away, but not now. Not until he finished what he’d begun.
He pulled off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirtsleeve to strap the small gun holder to the inside of his forearm. The derringer it held was of little use except at close range, but as a backup weapon, it had served nicely on more than one occasion.
He pulled on his jacket, checking the sleeve carefully to be sure the gun mechanism could spring the derringer into his palm if needed. Satisfied, he left his cabin to visit the hellholes of Natchez. It took him most of the morning and most of his patience to ask the same questions over and over. But he did it anyway, because he had no choice.
The Weeping Rose was the last saloon Dyer had to search before returning to the Belle. According to someone at the last saloon, a man by the name of Marples frequented the establishment and might have the information Dyer needed. He was determined not to place too much importance on the tip. He’d been led astray more times than not over the last few years, and most likely this tidbit would also lead nowhere.
He stepped up to the bar. “Is Marples here?”
The barkeep continued wiping the bar with a rag that probably left more grime than it took away. “Why?”
“I think he may know where I can find a friend of mine.”
The bartender remained silent until Dyer handed him a dollar. “Back room,” he replied, sticking the bill in his pocket. “Big ugly bastard with an eye patch.”
Dyer nodded, thankful that Marples had an eye patch. Otherwise, the man would be difficult to locate among all the other big ugly bastards on the premises.
Dyer stepped carefully around the debris and drunks that littered the Weeping Rose, determining it was no mystery how the place got its name. The smell of sour whiskey and filthy bodies would be enough to make anyone’s eyes weep, though he had a suspicion this Marples character wouldn’t notice.
A quick scan of the back room located the eye patch and the ugly bastard wearing it, sitting in the corner with a woman in company.
“You Marples?” Dyer asked, stopping in front of the man.
“What if I am?”
“I was told you could give me some information about a man I’m looking for.”
Marples shoved the woman off his lap, dropping his hand down by his gun as he stood to face Dyer. “And what if I don’t want to talk to you?”
Dyer sighed. He hated dealing with idiots like this, but in recent years it had been his destiny. “Then I’ll have to kill you,” he said, knowing if he backed down now, he wouldn’t make it out of there alive.
Suddenly the people around them scrambled to clear the area between the two men. Chairs fell over and voices stilled as they all turned to watch the confrontation. Dyer carefully moved his jacket away from his Colt .45, never taking his eyes off Marples. The big man stood, unflinching while he watched Dyer’s face for a reaction. Then . . . he smiled.
“Well, hell,” Marples said. “There ain’t no reason for someone to die if you just got some questions to ask.” He offered Dyer a chair at his table and yelled to the woman he’d sent tumbling, “Trudy, get this man a whiskey! He’s got bigger balls than a boar hog.”
Laughter filled the room, and the chaos returned as though the temporary lapse had never taken place. Dyer relaxed, but only slightly, as he took his seat at the table. He’d dealt enough with this type to know they only respected the fearless, and his newly found insanity probably hadn’t hurt either.
“What you needin’ to know?” Marples asked.
“You serve for the Confederacy during the war?”
Marples nodded.
“I was told your unit was stationed near Jasper, Texas, in July of sixty-three.”
Marples nodded again and scratched his whiskered chin. “We was closer to Louisiana, but we was about a day’s ride from Jasper. Why?”
“I’m looking for a man who may have been in your unit . . .”
Chapter Seven
Been shopping, I see.” Newt Crawford stood by the rail outside Dyer’s cabin, smoking his cheroot as though it were a coincidence he’d run into him.
Dyer knew better. “I had business to attend to.”
“Any luck?”
Dyer shook his head. Even though Marples had been in the Jasper area, he hadn’t known anyone fitting the description a witness had given of the murderer. Except for allowing Dyer to eliminate one of the Confederate units in the area, it was another wasted morning.
Newt took a final draw before he flipped his cheroot over the rail to water below. “You know I’d help you if you want.”
“Yeah.” Dyer wished there was some way Newt could help, but so far, all he kept hitting was dead ends. He didn’t need help for that.
“By the way,” Newt said. “How are the lessons going with Lottie?”
“She keeps coming back, so I reckon she’s learning what she wants to.”
“Don’t hurt her.”
If Dyer didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a threat in there somewhere. “I have no intention of hurting her.”
Newt’s expression didn’t even attempt to hide his doubt. “And exactly how is she paying for her lessons?”
“The arrangement Miss Mace and I have is by mutual agreement. I would never force her to do anything she didn’t choose to do.”
“Just remember, a girl like Lottie wouldn’t do what she’s doing without a damn good reason.
”
“Do you know what it is?”
Newt shook his head. “But maybe you should find out before you take your payment.”
“There won’t be any payment. She doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of winning that tournament.”
“Don’t underestimate her. She has more determination than any lady I’ve ever met.”
“Determination is one thing, but we’re talking about mastering poker with enough skill to beat some of the best players in the country.”
Newt shrugged. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“In four weeks?” Dyer shook his head. “You’ve got to be crazy.”
“I’m crazy?” Newt raised his brow. “I’m not the one spending my mornings on a lost cause.” He walked away.
Great. Apparently now everyone thought Dyer was nuts. He made another attempt to enter his cabin but stopped when a man hailed him from behind.
“Glad to see you on board, Mr. Straights.”
The hairs on the back of Dyer’s neck stood on end. Joseph Cullen was good at playing poker, but he was better at being a son of a bitch.
“Well,” Dyer said, turning to face him. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t let a tournament like this one pass you by.”
Cullen chuckled around the fat cigar he clenched between his teeth. His large belly strained against the buttons of his black satin vest as he hooked his thumb in his watch pocket and stopped to chat . . . unfortunately.
“A lot of fools will make this trip thinking to get rich, and I’ll be only too happy to relieve them of their money along the way.” Cullen pulled a handkerchief out of his suit jacket and wiped his perspiring brow. “You and I are just alike.”
Dyer cringed. He was sure Cullen had intended the comment to be a compliment, but by Dyer’s estimation, it was enough to call for a duel. “I’m not even sure I’m going to enter the tournament.”
“Not enter?” Cullen snorted. “Do you think I’m a fool?”
No, just a son of a bitch. Dyer shrugged. “I’m thinkin’ I might just go and watch.”
Cullen narrowed his gaze in what Dyer suspected was an attempt to determine if he was being made sport of before he flashed a quick, insincere smile. “Why, you have to play, Mr. Straights. I’m looking forward to beating you.”
“That would be something to see.” Dyer unlocked the door and stepped into his cabin. “Miracles are rare in this day and age.”
He closed the door before Cullen had a chance to respond, but he didn’t care what the man had to say anyway. Dyer had seen Cullen take the last dime from many a poor soul without batting an eye. Not that Dyer had a problem with making a man pay his debt. If he couldn’t afford to pay, he couldn’t afford to play. But Dyer would never cheat a man, and cheating was the least of Cullen’s offenses. There was nothing that man wouldn’t do for a buck.
Dyer pitched his jacket and hat on his bed and unbuttoned his shirt. The last few days on the river had been hotter than hell, and with the thick humid air, no matter how deep a breath he took, it wasn’t enough. At times like this, he really missed the little pond on his ranch. Skinny-dipping in the moonlight would’ve made a great end to a day like this.
He poured some water in the washbowl and removed his shirt. The cool splashes on his face and chest gave some reprieve from the heat, but he knew he’d have to wait for nightfall for any true relief, if it even came then.
“Dyer, honey,” Mimi’s voiced cooed from outside his door. “May I come in?”
“Sure, sweetheart.” Pouring himself a glass of whiskey, he dropped into a seat at his table.
Mimi entered his cabin and stopped. She raked her gaze appreciatively down his chest and back, ending with a look that at one time would have had his blood boiling.
“If I’d known you weren’t dressed, I would have come earlier.”
“Too damned hot for clothes.” He downed his whiskey in one gulp and set the glass on his table. “Drink?” he asked, motioning to the bottle.
She shook her head, closing the door. “You know, men are so lucky. They can just peel out of their shirts without a care and no one thinks a thing about it. But a woman?” She flicked open the first button on her bodice. “We have to wait until the door is closed.”
Dyer watched as she undid the next button. He knew what she was about to uncover, and it was a sight to behold, but Mimi Anderson was a complication he didn’t need right now. And much to his surprise, he didn’t want it either. Of course there was the little problem of what to do with her at the moment. Luckily, providence intervened, and another knock sounded on his door.
“Mr. Straights?” It was Lottie.
This should get interesting. He walked across his cabin, without his shirt, giving Mimi a moment to refasten her buttons before he opened the door. Lottie’s eyes flew open, and her mouth dropped.
“Oh dear,” she groaned. “Not again.”
Dyer laughed. Not a chuckle, but an honest to goodness laugh. It wasn’t so much what she had said as the way she had said it.
“Miss Mace, I’m sorry. I had forgotten our appointment.” He turned to Mimi, unable to contain his grin. “Mrs. Anderson, if you would please meet Miss Lottie Mace.”
Mimi turned a sickeningly sweet smile toward Lottie. “Please to meet you,” she said, but Dyer doubted it.
“If you will forgive us,” he said to Mimi. “I’m afraid I had other arrangements for the afternoon.”
Mimi laid her hand suggestively on his arm as she walked past. “Until later, then?”
He winked at Mimi and ushered Lottie quickly into his cabin. She had a charming blush, and her obvious attempts to keep her eyes averted from his chest gave him an odd sense of satisfaction. His state of undress had her clearly rattled, and that bit of knowledge was more arousing than Mimi’s previous offer of total seduction. Imagine that.
The imp in him decided to enjoy this opportunity while he had the chance. He ran his hand through his damp hair, leaning closely to her. “Tell me, Miss Mace, are you ready for today’s lesson?” Her eyes grew bigger than he thought possible as he reached behind her and closed the door.
She gulped and stepped back against it. “We—we had our lesson this morning.”
He placed his hands against the door on either side of her and shook his head. “Ah, but that was poker.”
“That’s the only lesson we have.”
“I’ve been thinking about that.”
“You have?” Her voice shook slightly as he leaned closer and nodded.
“Your payment for the poker lessons is a night in my bed.”
Her blush deepened as her tongue darted out nervously to moisten her lips. “I am fully aware of that.”
“Unless I miss my guess, you have very limited experience in those things. Am I right?”
She nodded in response. Evidently speech eluded her just now.
He nuzzled his lips against her temple as he whispered, “Perhaps we should combine your lessons.”
He allowed his cheek to brush against hers as he lowered his lips to within a hair’s breadth of her mouth. “What do you think, Miss Mace?”
“I—I think I’m late for lunch.” She pushed her hands against his chest and opened the door, scurrying from his cabin like her skirts were on fire.
Lottie didn’t slow down until she entered the restaurant and grabbed a towel from the counter. Her fingers trembled in an attempt to tie it around her waist. She actually wasn’t late for lunch; in fact she was early, but it was the quickest excuse she could think of at the time. Given the circumstances, she was lucky she had thought at all.
She didn’t know what had gotten into Dyer. It must be more of his attempts to frighten her away. He couldn’t possibly prefer her to the beautiful Mrs. Anderson, and the way that woman had looked at Dyer left no doubt she was more than willing to satisfy his needs. But his little games needed to stop. They were far too distracting.
Lottie pulled her notes from her bodice to study while she waited
for customers to arrive. She had to learn all the new information before tomorrow’s lesson. Time was running out, and somehow she had to convince Dyer she was ready to learn an actual game.
The arrival of customers forced her to put away her papers to wait on them, and as luck would have it, her first customer was Dyer.
She walked to his table, determined he would not fluster her any more today. She knew better than to declare it would never happen again. The man was better at flustering than anyone she had ever met, but one fluster a day was her limit, and he’d already had two.
“What would you like for lunch, Mr. Straights?”
“The special would be fine.”
She nodded and started to walk away when he stopped her with, “And an answer.”
“An answer?”
He leaned back in his chair. “While it occurred to me that you may have come to my cabin simply because you missed me, I have a suspicion there was something else on your mind.”
“Oh.” She had almost forgotten why she had gone to Dyer’s cabin and gotten herself into her earlier predicament. “I knew you were in Natchez, and I was wondering if you might know where I could purchase some cards. I thought I should learn how to handle them so I would look more comfortable during a game.”
Dyer raised his brow. “Wise decision. But going into a strange town alone might not be so wise.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“I’ve no doubt of that, but maybe you’d allow me to escort you.”
She felt her face flush. An afternoon alone with Dyer was probably more risky than Natchez. Especially considering the fact that all it had taken was a twinkling glint in his eye, and she was dangerously close to another fluster.
She opened her mouth to refuse his offer but was cut short by the beautiful Mrs. Anderson. “Dyer, darlin’,” she trilled, “I see you’re free after all.” She sat down at his table and glanced up at Lottie. “I’ll have what ever he’s having.” She fluttered her hand in a gesture of dismissal and turned her considerable charm on Dyer.
Lottie walked away knowing how a sparrow must have felt when a peacock entered the room. At one time, she would have been comfortable in the presence of such a woman, but Lottie’s expensive gowns and flashy jewelry were some of the many casualties of the war. Without them, she suddenly felt as drab as an old pair of brown work boots.
