Anita Mills (24 page)

“So what you got there, mister?” one fellow asked, looking to Matt. “It must be pretty danged good if you was willin’ to take a chance with that kind of money.” He started to reach for the winning hand.

“Unn-uhhh—you have to pay to see, gentlemen,” Matt murmured, raking in the pot.

“Better’n three aces?” the fellow persisted.

“I won, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, but I’d kinda like to see what beat ’em.”

“Only if you want to lay down eighty dollars.”

“Eighty dollars!”

Unperturbed, Matt nodded. “There were three raises, I believe—twenty, ten, and fifty. Makes eighty, doesn’t it, gentlemen?” he asked as he smoothed and folded the banknotes together. Stuffing the wad into his coat pocket, he started to rise. “Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast, Rena.” Seeing that she was gaping in disbelief, he settled the black felt hat on his head and smiled. “Bedbugs or not, I have it on good authority that the Columbus House has the best steak and eggs in town.”

The loser had stopped at the door, then swung back to face Matt with his revolver drawn. “No, I ain’t lettin’ nobody cheat me!” he spat out, coming back. “You knew I couldn’t call a bet like that—that’s why you did it, ain’t it? You couldn’t beat me fair and square! Well, let me tell you something about Bill Hoskins, mister! I kill cheaters!”

“Now calm down, Bill—it ain’t worth hangin’ for,” one of the others cautioned him.

“Turn over his cards.” His eyes on Matt, Bill declared, “If they ain’t better than mine, I’m killin’ the bastard.” To prove his point, he waved the gun menacingly as he moved closer. “Go on—let’s take a look at ’em.”

Verena held her breath as the younger man reached out for Matt’s closed hand. One by one, he turned each card over. “Four of clubs. Six of diamonds. Two of clubs. Ten of spades. Ten of clubs.” He looked up, announcing soberly, “Hell, he ain’t got but a pair of tens.”

McCready didn’t move a muscle as Bill cocked his revolver, but the click of the hammer being pulled back told Verena if she wanted to keep her money, it was up to her. With no time to aim, she raised McCready’s Colt and pulled the trigger. The report was deafening. Glass shattered, and a flame shot from the broken lantern, following a trail of kerosene to the floor. The four men dived for cover, then fought under the table for Bill’s gun. It discharged, sending a bullet upward, blasting a hole in the wood, burning the green-felt cover.

“Fire!” she shouted. “The place is on fire!”

“What the hell’s going on here?” a fat man demanded from a back door. The black, billowing kerosene smoke gave him a fair notion. “Water! Damn you—all of you! Get off that floor and fight the fire!” Grabbing the nearest bottle, he tried to douse the licking flames. As the alcohol caught in a
whoosh
, he dropped the bottle and ran for the bucket.

Crawling out on all fours, McCready was the first to emerge from the smoke. Without looking back, he grabbed Verena’s arm and headed for the swinging doors. As he pushed her through them, she twisted her head to see the other two men dragging poor Bill from beneath the table by his feet.

Once outside, she took a deep breath of fresh air. “Your gun—I dropped it,” she gasped.

“I got it.” Taking her elbow, Matt hurried her along the walk. “You’re not much of a shot, but I sure as hell admire your thinking,” he told her. “That was a damned close call. I was afraid if I threw Betsy, you’d get in the way.”

“Betsy?”

“My knife.”

“You named your knife for some woman?” she asked incredulously.

“Nobody in particular,” he assured her, slowing down. “But it’s the female of a species that’s usually the deadliest, so it seemed fairly appropriate. Anyway, you probably saved my life.”

“I was trying to save my money,” she retorted. “You stole my money, Matthew McCready—you took it without even asking.”

“If I’d asked, would you have loaned it?”

“Of course not!” she snapped. “That was all I had between me and starvation—and you just took it!”

“I rest my case.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Were you just born contrary, or did something godawful happen to make you this way?”

“Ohhhh no, you don’t—you’re not going to turn the tables on me, Matthew. I have every right to be angry, and you know it. I didn’t steal from you, you know. It was the other way around.”

He came to a dead stop in the street. Reaching into his coat pocket, he took out the large wad of bills. The sky was lightening, the rosiness fading to blue. Licking his thumb, he began counting his winnings out. “Two hundred thirty … two thirty-one … two thirty-two … two thirty-three. Not bad for a couple of hours’ work, is it?”

She stared at it. “There’s two hundred and thirty-three dollars there?”

“Uh-huh.” Recounting, he separated it. “Here—you can owe me the fifty cents.”

“What?”

“There’s a hundred and seventeen dollars there. I figure that’s your share. A half share of the winnings isn’t a bad return on your investment, is it?”

“Well, it ought to be one hundred forty-six.”

One black eyebrow shot up. “How’s that?”

“You started out with my fifty-nine dollars, didn’t you?”

“More or less.”

“All right, then—if you give that back, there’s still a hundred and seventy-four left, isn’t there?”

“I don’t have a pen and paper.”

“I don’t need one. I’ll just take half the winnings, which ought to be—” She paused to figure the amount in her head. “Eighty-seven dollars. You owe me eighty-seven dollars more than the fifty-nine, McCready. And since you’ve already given me the one seventeen, I figure I’ve still got twenty-nine more coming.”

He looked at her for a long moment, then carefully counted off a ten and a twenty. “All right—now you’re ahead one dollar.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re a hard woman, Verena. Otherwise you’d have figured you owe me for bluffing that one out back there. There’s a lot more to poker than cards, you know.”

“How much is your life worth?” she countered, refolding the bills. “More than twenty-nine dollars?” she asked sweetly.

It was a hard point to dispute. “Yeah.”

“You had no right to take it, you know,” she added. “No right at all. What if he’d had fifty dollars more?”

“He didn’t.”

“Well then, is he right? Did you cheat him because you knew he didn’t have the money to bet?”

“He could have borrowed it if he felt strong enough about his hand—I did.”

“But what if he had?” she persisted. “What were you going to do then?”

“You don’t understand the game.”

“Well, if you always win, why did you need my fifty-nine dollars? Answer that one, will you?”

“I was robbed.” Lifting his arm, he showed her the bullet hole in his sleeve. “Look at that—he ruined a damned good coat.”

“You were robbed,” she echoed faintly.

“Yeah, coming back last night. I guess he saw me win and headed me off.”

“Why didn’t you say something earlier, when—” She could feel the hateful heat creeping into her cheeks. “When we were in your room,” she managed.

“I sort of had other things on my mind at the time,” he said softly. He could almost watch the guilt parade across her face. “Like saving your life,” he added, letting her off the hook. “And I believe I’ll take that thirty dollars back, now that I think of it.”

“You’re forgetting the train,” she reminded him. “And come to think of
that
, there’s at least another ten dollars you owe me for my dress.”

“Damn, but you drive a hard bargain, Verena.”

But he was smiling, and the warmth in his eyes was enough to send a shiver down her spine. As the memory of his kiss flooded through her, she had to look away. She couldn’t let him know just how well she remembered that.

“Yes, well, you know what they say about money and friendship, don’t you?”

“I can’t think of it.”

“That borrowing ruins it—the friendship, I mean.”

“What about the notion that a man ought to give a friend the shirt off his back?” he shot back.

“I’m not a man. I’m a schoolteacher who can barely make ends meet in the best of times. And it’s still a long way to San Angelo and back to Philadelphia, even on a hundred and forty-six dollars.” Keeping her eyes averted still, she started down the street again. At the corner, she crossed the street diagonally.

He caught up quickly. “Columbus House is over there,” he pointed out.

“I know, but in case there are others awaiting the stagecoach, I’m going to be at the window when the ticket office opens.”

“It isn’t six o’clock yet!”

“I don’t eat steak for breakfast anyway. In fact, this morning, I couldn’t eat a morsel. My head hurts, and I’ve already been sick once.” Stopping momentarily, she eyed him balefully. “You lied about the whiskey, you know. It was even worse than the wine.”

“Oh, so that’s what really ails you.”

“No. It was finding you’d left without so much as a word, taking my last fifty-nine dollars with you. You didn’t even care if somebody carried me off while you were gone. You know, I thought you’d abandoned me.”

His eyebrow arched again. “I’d be a damned fool to go off without my gun or my clothes.”

“I was afraid, Matthew.”

In the morning light, her hazel eyes were heavily flecked with gold, making him wonder why he hadn’t noticed their incredible beauty before now. Just looking into them almost took his breath away, giving him thoughts he couldn’t afford. He had to look away to keep his heart from racing.

“I said I’d get you to San Antonio, Rena,” he said finally. “I had to do it the only way I knew how.”

The Menger House in San Antonio was a welcome relief from the rigors Verena had endured since landing at Galveston in what now seemed like an age ago. The town itself was old and decidedly Spanish, with beautiful old homes set amid shaded gardens, and the Menger seemed to be pretty much in the middle of it, set across a plaza from the famous Alamo.

It was a nice hotel, the sort one would expect to find in a civilized place, with a lovely courtyard, fountains, roses, magnolias, and dark-leaved oleander as big as trees. The sweet fragrances intermingled, permeating the air, creating a heady perfume. The place was so peaceful, so serene, she reflected languidly. She didn’t even want to get out of the rose-scented bathwater to dress for dinner. She’d found an oasis of loveliness in the middle of the most uncomfortable journey of her life.

A light tap sounded on her door. Then a maid called out in heavily accented English, “Miss Herrick? The
señor,
your brother, he send you something. Miss Herrick, you still in there?”

“Yes—uh—
uno momento
—uh, just a minute!” Verena answered, forcing her weary body out of the bathtub. Hastily wrapping a huge white towel around her wet body, she hobbled to the door, turned the lock, and cracked it open. “What is it?”

“For you—he say give it to hees
señorita
seester.” Smiling, the girl held out a large box, then gestured to the narrow opening. “You take—no?”

“Uh, yes—yes, of course.” Stepping behind the door, Verena opened it wider. “Just put it on the bed, please. Uh—
gracias,
is it?’

“
Sí.
”

Still smiling, the maid carried the box over and laid it atop the fringed cotton coverlet. “He say he hope you like it,” she said, slipping out past Verena.

What on earth—? Quickly relocking the door, Verena turned her attention to the box on the bed. It was tied with knotted string, but she managed to slip it over the corners, then pull it off. Lifting the lid, she looked down in disbelief. It was a dress. Matthew McCready had bought her a dress.

As she lifted it out of the box, a piece of paper dropped to the floor. It was a green taffeta dress, exquisitely embroidered with black and gold thread. Taking care not to spot it with bathwater, she held it up, then looked into the mirror. It had a wide, deep neckline, short full sleeves, a fitted bodice, and a skirt that was narrow in front, and gathered to a fullness in the back. It was fancy enough to wear to an opera. Definitely too fancy for a spinster schoolteacher. And far too revealing. No, she couldn’t wear it. She wouldn’t dare wear it.

Laying the gown on the bed, she bent to pick up the paper, unfolded it, and read, “It more or less matches your eyes, so I bought it for you. Wear it tonight, and I’ll take you out for the best dinner to be had in San Antone. I thought that as modest as you are, you might want to put the mantilla around your shoulders rather than your head.” Then, on the back side, he’d added, “If it doesn’t fit, there’s a woman who can alter it between now and when you leave in the morning.”

When you leave in the morning.
It was a lowering thought. This was the last time she’d probably ever see Matthew McCready. At eight o’clock tomorrow morning, she’d be going on to San Angelo, and he’d be going somewhere else. In spite of yesterday’s anger over the money, she was going to miss him. She was going to be alone again.

No, it was more than that. She was really going to miss
him.
It was silly, and she knew it, but he was the first man she’d ever truly liked since her father had left for the war. As exasperating, even as infuriating as Matthew McCready was, he was also fascinating. Dangerously so.

It seemed as if every time she was with him now, she couldn’t help remembering what it had felt like when he’d kissed her, when he’d held her that night in Columbus. She couldn’t even look at him without shamelessly wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t come to her senses. She would have sinned, she knew that much.

It had changed things between them, there was no doubt about that. Beneath the usual banter, the smart barbs, there was something else, an awareness that wouldn’t go away. And judging by the way she sometimes caught him looking at her, he felt it also. So it was just as well that he wasn’t coming with her, she told herself. Otherwise, she was in danger of succumbing to his considerable charm, then regretting it later. And she didn’t want that.

No, she’d set herself on course to be a spinster for life, one of those women who never knew what it was like to love a man. And she’d done it deliberately, swearing to herself that she wouldn’t let anybody cause her the pain her father had given her mother. No woman in her right mind would want anything like that. Whoever it was who’d said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all hadn’t known her mother.

She couldn’t wear that dress. She’d be showing far too much skin for a decent woman. But it was the sort of gift one could expect from a man like McCready, she supposed. He probably didn’t really know any decent women. Being a gambler, he probably met more cantina girls than any other kind. The good women of this world didn’t go to the places he frequented.

No, that wasn’t what he’d said. She distinctly remembered his telling her that he’d been to those fancy New Orleans balls, that he’d danced with aristocratic belles. It had been some sort of victory for him. In his mind, it had proven he was more than a Tennessee farm boy.

She looked at the dress again, wondering if any New Orleans belle would be brave enough to wear it. Then the black lace spilling out of the box caught her eye. The mantilla he’d mentioned. She could wear it around her shoulders, he’d said.

Intrigued, she dried herself quickly, then slipped into clean drawers. At least she’d brought her corset for the court hearing, so she wouldn’t be entirely indecent. Threading her arms through the shoulder straps, she pulled the undergarment around her, straightening the stays beneath her breasts, and pulled the laces to tighten the elastic between them. The effect was an eye-popping bosom. But if she wore the dress at all, she’d have to wear the corset. Otherwise, if she wore her chemise, the shoulders of it would show, and the effect would be ludicrous.

Shaking out the dress, she noted that there was a crinoline of sorts sewn into the waist. The crisp taffeta swished as she pulled it over her head, jerked it down over her hips, and straightened the bodice. Small, concealed hooks went down the front, she discovered. As she worked upward from her waist, the material tautened, hugging her bosom. It wasn’t until she was done that she dared to look into the mirror.

The effect was breathtaking. Between the sheen of the taffeta and the gleam of the gold, she fairly shimmered. And green was her color, there was no doubt about that. But the dress was daring, showing not only the pale, creamy shoulders, but also more than a hint of the crevice between her breasts. And the corset beneath made them look rounder, fuller than usual. Almost sinfully so.

She stood there, torn between tearing it off and putting on one of the two dresses he’d already seen, or wearing it, brazening it out as if she were one of those fancy New Orleans belles. She hesitated. No, that would be like making a silk purse from a sow’s ear. She didn’t have any necklace or anything else to break that expanse of skin.

Studying herself, she lifted her still-damp hair off her neck, holding it up. She had a good neck. And she had nice shoulders. Funny, but she’d never really noticed that before. But then she’d never had a dress anything like this before. Ever. Standing there, she allowed herself to imagine what he’d think when he saw her.