Delilah shivered. The man didn't smile when he was supposed to, and then smiled when he was challenged. It could take a long time to figure a man like that out. More time than she had. . . or wanted.
* * *
A few moments later, Delilah reentered her room with the intention of putting Poopsy on her leash and taking her with her to the Lucky Strike. As usual, after having left the dog alone, Delilah was greeted by a chorus of complaints that sounded very much as though Poopsy was trying to talk. "Rr. . . ow, rah, rah, rr .. ow.” Delilah knew when she was being given what-for. She had come to the conclusion that Poopsy simply did not know that she was a dog. After all, Edwina Sharp had gone so far as to dress her canine companion in specially fashioned clothing and style her long silky hair. Quite simply, Poopsy thought she was entitled to go anywhere that Delilah went.
Being of an entirely different opinion, not to mention a different temperament than Edwina, Delilah simply could not cater to the animal the way Edwina Sharp had. Since she had been saddled with the little rascal, she had decided that the only way to save her own sanity was to make Poopsy understand that she was a dog.
Now, stopping just inside the door of her room, Delilah placed her hands on her hips and stood looking down at Poopsy. "How many times have I told you that I will not tolerate that kind of behavior, Poochie? If you want to come with me, I suggest that you start behaving yourself immediately."
"Rraw, rrow, ruff.” The little dog bobbed her head as though straining to form words.
"Poochie," Delilah said in a warning tone. "I will leave you here. Now do you want to come or not?"
As though sensing that her new mistress was at the end of her patience, Poopsy abruptly sat down, lifted her head, and curled her upper lip, baring her teeth. Delilah winced inwardly—to her the expression was a snarl—but she ignored her inner response because she knew that this was Poopsy's version of an agreeable smile. Why Edwina had ever bothered to teach a dog to smile, was beyond her, but she had. It was only one of Poopsy's bizarre little behaviors.
"That's much better. Now where's your leash?"
Poopsy cocked her head for an instant and then obediently pranced over to the carpetbag that, when laid on its side, doubled as her bed, and extracted her leash. Gripping the strip of leather in her teeth, she dragged it over to where Delilah waited.
"Good girl," Delilah praised. Bending she fastened the leash around Poopsy's neck. "And I want you to continue to be a good girl tonight. Is that understood?” Poopsy didn't respond. "I mean it Poochie," Delilah reiterated. "You should know by now that the people we meet in saloons will not meet Edwina's high standards. There is to be no biting or peeing on people's feet. All right?"
Poopsy smiled agreeably, and Delilah wondered what she'd missed outlining in her list of undesirable behaviors. The little dog appeared entirely too cocky.
* * *
Along with the warm yellow glow of lantern light, the lively and somehow bawdy sound of “The Yellow Rose of Texas” being played on a tinny-sounding piano spilled from the doors of the Lucky Strike into the dark and otherwise nearly silent streets. Studiously ignoring the painful knot in her stomach, Delilah took a deep breath and stepped into the hazy blue atmosphere of the saloon as though she belonged there.
She'd never grown accustomed to being around so many men.
Still, gambling was much better than doing laundry until her hands bled, or taking in mending and working by the light of a lamp until her eyes teared from the strain. Her mama, Morgana Sinclair, had always said that everyone had a God-given talent, and it was their duty to discover where that talent lay in order to make the best of life for themselves. Well, Delilah had discovered hers and was following her mother's advice. It was simply an example of nature's perversity that the gentle graces Morgana had taught her daughter aided her so well in a profession that she would have abhorred had she lived.
Viewing Delilah's aptitude for the gambling game as sinful, Morgana Sinclair had always compressed her lips with disapproval whenever her husband had bowed to Delilah's pleas and had sat down to play poker with his daughters. Garrett Sinclair had done his best to convince Morgana that, when playing for nothing more than matchsticks, poker was merely good wholesome family entertainment. He had even managed to convince Morgana to play the game herself on occasion. But no matter how much she might have enjoyed the game she would never have admitted it, for she could not quite forget the strictures with which she'd been raised.
"Sorry, Mama," Delilah whispered now as she looked around, studying the crowded tables. Most were occupied by miners, she thought, although a few cowhands seemed to have come to town. They were a loud, unruly bunch, and at a couple of tables the mood was distinctly ugly as the men argued.
The knot in her stomach tightened a notch, but she knew from experience that once she started playing the tension would ease and she'd be in her element. So, taking a deep breath, she ignored it. Besides, she told herself, on the whole, she'd run into very few men over the years who didn't treat a lady like a lady. It was simply a twist of fate that one of those she'd met had had the power to ruin her life.
She walked slowly through the room and approached the bar. As her presence was noted by more and more men, the noise in the room slowly decreased. She could feel their eyes on her, but she ignored the sensation. If she dwelled on it, she'd run out screaming and never again find the courage to face another man with hot greedy eyes.
And Delilah Sinclair refused to hide.
"Good evening, sir," she said to the bartender, her tone clear and full of confidence. "Is Miss Cora in?"
"Yes, ma'am. She is."
"Would you tell her that Mrs. Sterne is here to see her, please?"
"Sure thing.” The middle-aged bartender considered her gravely. "You want something to drink while I go get her?"
Delilah smiled absently, her thoughts already moving on. "I'll have another peach cordial if you don't mind?"
"Comin' right up."
In the past three years, ever since she'd seen Eve safely married off at the tender age of seventeen, Delilah had supported herself with her facility for gambling. As one of the West's few women gamblers, and certainly one of the youngest, she'd actually done quite well for herself. She'd definitely earned more than she had when she and Eve had taken in mending and laundry to keep the wolf from their door after their father had been shot, leaving them orphaned at the ages of seventeen and fifteen respectively. And gambling had been a lot less painful.
The problem was that luck came in streaks, as any gambler could affirm, and Delilah's luck hadn't been the greatest in the last few months.
"Mrs. Sterne, I presume," a woman's voice said. It was a low-pitched voice, but musical and clear.
Delilah turned to see a tall statuesque redhead considering her with an astute brown-eyed gaze. "That's correct," Delilah said. "And you would be Miss Cora?"
The woman nodded. "Mitch tells me that you want to speak with me about working here."
"I do."
Miss Cora considered her quite openly for a moment, her eyes travelling over Delilah's lithe form from head to toe, lingering for a moment on the strange little dog sitting patiently next to Delilah's small feet. Then, just as the piano player concluded a lively ditty with a flourish and the barroom fell unnaturally silent, she said, "Come with me. We'll talk in my office."
Cora's office was small, barely large enough to hold the walnut desk and three chairs it contained, but its white walls were spotlessly clean as were the bright yellow gingham curtains that hung over the single window. An oil lamp hung from a hook on the wall next to the door.
"You're not the usual sort of woman who comes in here," Cora said, giving Delilah another assessing glance. "Still, I'm afraid I have to tell you that I just don't have the room for any more girls at the moment."
"Oh, no! You've misunderstood!” Delilah was flabbergasted. Hadn't the bartender mentioned gambling? "I'm not here to apply for. . . that kind of work."
Cora frowned in perplexity. "Then I'm afraid I don't understand. Why are you here?"
"I was wondering if you'd be willing to discuss a business proposition concerning your card table. It appears to be quite vacant at the moment."
Cora's brows arched in surprise. "You're a dealer?!"
Delilah nodded. "Poker primarily. I'm not as accomplished at faro, but I've played it."
Cora leaned back in her chair and surveyed Delilah with wide, astonished eyes. "Well, I'll be!” A second later, she regained her aplomb. "Still I have to tell you Mrs. Sterne . . . "
"Delilah. . . please. Call me Delilah."
"Very well. . . Delilah. I have to warn you that, even should we come to an agreement, gamblers do not fare well here in Red Rock."
Delilah compressed her lips and nodded. "So I've heard. However, I'm willing to take that risk."
"If Sheriff Chambers so much as gets a glimmer that you're cheating, he'll throw you in jail and run you out of town the next day."
Delilah stiffened her spine. "I may be a gambler, Miss Cora, but I do not cheat. I was raised in a good God-fearing family where dishonesty was not tolerated.” She smiled then. "I am, however, uncannily fortunate at times which has led people to accuse me of cheating."
Cora considered her with astute brown eyes. "I see.” She drummed her fingertips on the desk thoughtfully. "I'd be willing to offer you the standard twenty-five percent of the house take."
"Fifty percent," Delilah countered.
"Fifty percent!" Cora echoed. "You've got to be joking! The highest I could go would be thirty percent."
"Forty. After all, your table is sitting there earning you nothing at the moment."
"Thirty-five," said Cora, with a steely look in her eyes.
"Forty," Delilah reiterated.
Cora considered. "I thought you said you didn't cheat."
"I don't. I am enterprising. There is a difference."
"Forty percent of the house take is unprecedented."
"So don't tell anyone. I need the money, and you stand to make money on an otherwise empty table."
"Oh, very well. Forty percent. Provided that you're any good."
Delilah smiled. "You won't be disappointed."
"That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" Cora said. Slowly, however, she returned Delilah's smile and rose from her position behind her desk. Leaning forward onto her fists, she said, "I'll let you start tonight, to see how you do. Then, tomorrow night, you can start right after supper."
"I can give you a demonstration tonight, but I actually won't be able to start for three or four days, if that's not a problem. I'm going out of town in the morning. I just wanted to get this sorted out before I left."
She shrugged. "I can't see that it will be much of problem. As you so kindly pointed out, the table is empty anyway.
"You have friends in the area, do you?" Cora asked.
Delilah shook her head. "A sister, actually. At the Devil's Fork ranch. I want to spend some time with her."
"Eve Cameron?"
Delilah nodded. "Yes, she married Tom a couple of years ago. Do you know her?"
"I know of her.” Cora rocked back on her heels. "Well, I'll be! How long's it been since you've seen her?"
Delilah hesitated. Was there something in Cora's voice that shouldn't be there? "About a year, I guess. Why? Is something wrong?"
Cora paused. "There's been some trouble out that way recently. Rustling mostly. I haven't heard anything about the Devil's Fork, though, so it may not have affected them much."
She walked the few steps to the door and said, "Well, Delilah, let's see what you can do, shall we?"
"Certainly.” The knot in Delilah's stomach tightened another notch. She ignored it.
Cora began to open the door and then stopped. After giving Delilah's attire a thorough examination, she asked, "Did you want to borrow a room to change in?"
"Change?" Delilah echoed. "Is there something wrong with what I have on?"
"You look like a preacher's wife. It's going to be kind of hard to dazzle the men with your charms when they can't see them."
Delilah compressed her lips. "I do not intend to use my charms, such as they are, to dazzle anyone. As I said, I play an honest game of poker."
Cora considered her with astute eyes that saw far too much, Delilah felt certain. Then, she held up her hands briefly as though in surrender. "Fine. I just thought I'd mention it. Most women like to make the most of what they have.” She opened the door and wordlessly indicated that Delilah should precede her.
Minutes later, Delilah took her place at the newly dusted gaming table, settled Poopsy firmly at her feet, and began shuffling cards. Laying the deck down she spread the cards into a perfect fan-shape before lifting the edge of one card with a fingernail and flipping the entire deck over and then back again. Scooping the cards up in a practiced sweep, she shuffled. The room was unnaturally silent as drovers and miners alike watched her. Then, she lifted her gaze and smiled.
It was the practiced smile she'd learned to use. A smile that rivaled the sunlight for brilliance and made every man who received it feel as though it shone just for him. It was her professional smile, and the only artifice she used to dazzle.
It was enough.
"Come on up gentlemen," she called in a soft but carrying voice that conveyed culture and decorum. She sounded like a society lady inviting the men into her private drawing room to have their brandies. "Come on up and put your money down.” She launched into the spiel she'd learned to use to attract her customers. "Lady Luck is smiling on the Lucky Strike tonight, gentlemen. It could be your night to strike it rich."
A few of the men began to stir. "I ain't never seen no lady dealer afore," one voice grumped.
"I have. Hell, once I played with Poker Alice herself."
"Poker Alice weren't no lady."
Delilah returned her attention to the cards in her hands, performing all sorts of dexterous movements designed to show her skill and attract attention. "Step up, gentlemen," she flashed her smile again, making every man there feel as though Lady Luck herself had smiled just for him. "Step up and put your money down. Everybody wins when Lady Luck is in town."
A couple of cowboys near the rear of the saloon rose and took their places at the table. Delilah looked to the one on her left. He was probably about thirty, but he looked older. His skin looked like old leather, brown and lined by the elements he faced. His eyes were grey blue and his cheeks covered with stubble.
"Good evening, sir."
"You can call me Tex, ma'am."
"Tex it is. And what's your game, Mr. Tex?"
"Five card draw, ma'am. An' it ain't mister. Just Tex."
Delilah looked to his companion. "Draw poker sound all right to you, sir?"
The cowboy tipped a battered Stetson and slid some money onto the table. "Yes, ma'am. Stud poker is my usual game, but draw is fine an' dandy too. An' I ain't never been sir to nobody. The name's Lance."
Delilah increased the brilliance of her smile as she counted out chips and began to deal. "I'm pleased to meet you Mr. Lance. I'm Mrs. Sterne."
Tex won the first hand. On the next hand, the cowhands were joined by a couple of old miners, and one man Delilah couldn't categorize. He was well-dressed, but didn't have the look of a lawyer or doctor. The mayor perhaps?
As the evening progressed, the knot in her stomach eased. It looked like the few days she'd spent away from the game had turned her luck around. She'd lost only the one hand.
And then, she felt a powerful presence, and looked up to see Sheriff Chambers' gaze boring into her from his leaning position against the bar. Their eyes met and, for an instant, Delilah froze in mid deal. Then, without a flicker of expression, the sheriff mockingly lifted his shot glass as though in toast to her and downed the whiskey he held.
The gesture doubled as a warning and a dare, and they both knew it. He was daring her to cheat—which she wouldn't do, anyway, of course—but she had
n't realized how difficult it would be to play beneath Matt Chambers' watchful gaze. She made an error, throwing away a card she should have kept, and lost the hand.
Blast it all! She couldn't afford stupid mistakes like that. Not now.
Determination tightened her jaw. Somehow, she was either going to have to learn to ignore the sheriff's potent gaze, or she was going to have to get rid of the man.
At the moment, the latter option had some definite appeal.
Maybe she could stage a robbery and send him off chasing bad guys for the few weeks that she'd be here. Foolish thought. If she couldn't play an honest card game beneath his too-observant gaze, how in blazes would she plan and execute a robbery?
No, there had to be another way, an easier way, of keeping the good sheriff out of her hair. She just had to find it.
~~~* * *~~~
CHAPTER 4
________________________
The mountain morning dawned crisp and clear as Delilah made her way down the boardwalk toward the livery. It felt good to have an excuse to don split skirts and her black lady-sized Stetson again. Her father's Winchester, buried so long at the bottom of her trunk, felt familiar and reassuring in her hand. She had decided to risk the tarnish on her "helpless lady" image that carrying the Winchester might create, for the small derringer she carried in her reticule would be all but useless in the wild. Thanks to the absence of her escort from the Devil's Fork, she had little choice but to venture out on her own.
Lifting her head slightly, she took a deep breath of the fresh morning air and smiled. She was looking forward to escaping civilization for a time. It had been so long since she'd ridden a horse and travelled to places that a wagon would never go. So long since she'd camped and fished in the wild. So long since. . . her father had died.
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