Texas Hold Him (15 page)

“I guess that’s a matter of opinion.” She looked at the glass as though it held poison instead of whiskey.

“Think of it as medicine.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a clean shirt. She pinched her nose and downed the rest of the
contents, shuddering again as the whiskey rolled its way to her belly. The face she made brought a chuckle from him despite
the circumstances.

“Why do men drink that intentionally?”

“We’re stupid, I guess.” He handed her the shirt. “I’m going to step outside while you take off your torn dress and put this
on to sleep in. Let me know when you’re under the covers, and I’ll come in and turn out the lamp.”

The flash of panic in her eyes made him regret again that he hadn’t killed the bastard.

“I’m going to sleep out on the deck to night,” he said.

“I can’t run you from your cabin.” Her hand shook as she smoothed back her hair. “I can go to mine—”

“I’m going to sleep outside this door,” he interrupted, “so you’ll be safe.”

He had fought many battles and faced many dangers in his life, but the slight quiver of that woman’s lip almost brought him
to his knees.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he escaped to the deck.

Lottie forced her eyes open as soon as the sun’s light peeked through the window of the cabin. It was morning, and she hadn’t
intended to sleep that long. Now she was stuck in Dyer’s cabin with no darkness to hide her flight back to her room or cover
the tear in her gown. She supposed she could wear his shirt over her dress, but then everyone who saw her would assume she
had spent the night in his bed. Which was true, but not in the way they would think.

She climbed out of bed and padded across the room, where her gown lay draped across the back of a chair. Maybe in the light
of day, the gaping rip wasn’t as bad as she had remembered. She lifted the gown to examine the bodice and frowned.

It wasn’t torn.

She rubbed her eyes and checked one more time. Someone had sewn her gown while she slept, and based on the slightly crooked
stitches that held the rip together, the someone was Dyer. She squirmed into the dress, wincing slightly when the lace around
the neckline brushed the scratch on her breast. Shoving open his door, she saw no one on the deck except for Dyer, asleep
in his chair.

The large makeup smudge on his shirt should go well with the whiskey she’d dumped on his suit jacket the night she’d baptized
him. If she had any money left after paying the blackmailer, she definitely needed to replace his damaged wardrobe. Especially
considering she was the reason for the damages.

She crept out the door, pulling it closed quietly behind her. Though she had intended to hurry to her cabin as quickly as
possible, the slight movement of his head caused her to freeze in her step. A lock of hair fell across his brow, and the shadow
of the beard on his jaw reminded her of the first time she had seen him, half naked and madder than a wet hen.

But that anger was nothing compared to what she’d seen last night. She’d thought Dyer was going to kill the man who’d attacked
her and may God forgive her, but she’d hoped he would.

“Do you always watch men as they sleep?” How had he known she was there? She’d been as quiet as a mouse.

“Only men who sleep outside my door.”

His lips formed a soft smile as he opened his eyes to study her face. “Are you all right?”

Her face was a little sore, and the scratch on her breast still stung, but after what she’d been though, she was remarkably
all right. “Thanks to you.”

“You going to work to night?”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“I still have to earn my entry fee for the tournament,” she said. “Last night didn’t change anything.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Mace.” He stood, ran his hands back through his hair, and then stepped close enough to raise
her chin with his finger. “Last night changed a great deal.”

A quick brush of his lips against hers surprised her as he entered his cabin and closed the door.

The day passed more slowly than most. Each person who entered the restaurant caused Lottie’s heart to jump into her throat.
It was well past noon before she finally allowed herself to believe that her attacker would not return to finish what he’d
begun.

When evening came, she climbed back into her satin dress, hating the feel of it against her skin. She knew it was silly to
blame the dress for what had happened the night before, but she couldn’t help feeling if she hadn’t worn something so scandalous,
she wouldn’t have been attacked. She took a deep breath. Dwelling on what had happened was pointless and ate up time she didn’t
have.

The warmth of Momma’s locket against her breasts gave her the reinforcement she needed to go back and face the tables once
more. To night she would win her entry. She could feel it in her bones.

She left her cabin and made her way to the gaming salon, not slowing until she reached the higher ante tables. The gamblers
at these tables were either more skilled or more foolish than the others, and she knew she was taking a higher risk by seeking
them out. But she was ready for the tougher tables. After all, she’d beaten Dyer, hadn’t she?

She spotted an empty seat at one of the tables and
wasted no time to claim it. “You gentlemen mind if a lady joins your game?”

They welcomed her with only a slight hesitation. She recognized most of the men at the table, and evidently they had seen
her play before. The shocked looks she used to receive were getting fewer all the time. Smiling, she took her seat and turned
to greet the gentleman to her left. She froze. The dark-headed man she’d seen on the pier walked over to the table, stopping
behind the chair of an elderly gentleman. “I believe you’re in my seat, suh,” the man said.

The older gentleman glanced up at him, a denial on his lips, but the cold look in the stranger’s eyes stopped him. “Sorry,”
he said, gathering his chips, “I didn’t realize it was yours.”

“That wasn’t very gentlemanly of you,” Lottie said once the older man hurried away.

The bearded man chuckled. “Evidently his heart wasn’t in the game, or he wouldn’t have surrendered his seat so quickly.” He
reached his hand toward her. “Evenin’, ma’am. I’m Abe Johnson. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

She swallowed the knot of apprehension that crept up her throat. “I’m Lottie Mace.”

She tentatively shook his hand, then took her seat. She glanced quickly around the room to see if any of the other tables
had empty spots, but seeing none, decided to stay where she was. She didn’t particularly want to play cards with this man,
but there were no other open spots, and she needed to earn her entry. She pitched her ante to the center.

“What’s the game, gentlemen?” she asked, determined not to let Johnson upset her.

“Draw,” the dealer answered, shuffling the cards.

She glanced across the table, surprised to see Wayne Dawson facing her. He smiled, and she felt safer somehow. She picked
up her cards and decided to throw out three of them. The replacements she received gave her a good hand. Good enough to win
the pot. The next two hands took a little longer to play, but she won those as well. She knew giggling wouldn’t be wise at
the table, but she had four hundred seventy dollars in front of her, and the giggles fought to escape.

Why had Dyer suggested she stay at the lower tables? This was the easiest money in the room, and these gamblers were no better
than the others. Obviously he was confused.

She folded on her next hand, but then received another she knew would win. She stayed in until the last call . . . and lost.

Well . . .

She tapped her fingers against the table. She couldn’t expect to win them all, but the next three losing hands took her down
to five dollars. There wasn’t even enough to ante up.

She stood. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to get some more funds.”

Wayne Dawson stopped her. “I can lend you a few dollars.”

“That’s kind of you, Mr. Dawson, but I’m afraid I need more than a few.”

She left the table to look for Dyer. She’d just had a run of bad luck, and she needed to get right back into the game. Just
because she’d lost four hands in a row didn’t mean she didn’t know how to play.

She hurried around the room, searching for Dyer or
Newt. A fifty-dollar loan would be nothing for either of them, and that was all she needed to get back on her feet. Where
were they?

One of the men from her table motioned for her to return. “Are you in or out?” he asked. “There’s another man wanting your
spot.”

She reached for Momma’s locket, sure her mother would approve of what she was about to do. It was to save Daddy, after all.
“I’m in, if you’ll accept this as my ante.”

There simply wasn’t enough air. All she’d had was sucked out of her, and each gasp did little to bring it back.

Everything.

She had lost everything.

She reached for her locket, temporarily forgetting it was also gone, and choked back a sob. She wanted to go home. Never in
her life had she missed having her momma more than she did right now.

“Don’t even think of giving up.”

With a deep breath for strength, she turned away from the rail to face Newt. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

The ember from his cheroot glowed in the darkness as he walked closer to join her. “Does whoever you’re trying to save still
need to be saved?”

“How do you know it isn’t me?”

Newt chuckled and flipped his cigarette into the river. “I may be a lot of things, but a poor judge of character isn’t one
of them. Something tells me you wouldn’t be going through all this for yourself.”

She attempted to calm her trembling hands and nodded. She could deny it, but Newt would know better. He always did. “Yes,
he still needs to be saved.”

“If it was a good enough reason to start, it’s a good enough reason to finish.”

“How do I know I’m not already finished?”

He shrugged. “I can’t answer that one for you. I guess you’ll just know it when you know it.”

He gave her a quick hug and a wink before sauntering off into the darkness to leave her with her thoughts. Even though a true
friend would have left her with someone else’s thoughts.

“Looks like you need a drink.” Dyer’s voice reached her before she saw his dark silhouette ambling across the deck.

“I don’t drink.”

“I think that may be your problem.” He stepped up beside her, an open bottle of whiskey in one hand and a glass in the other.

“I don’t think a bottle of whiskey will solve my problems, Mr. Straights.”

He half filled the glass and handed it to her. “You’ll never know until you try. Besides, all gamblers drink.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I have tried it, and it was horrible, lest you forget.”

“That was a different kind of whiskey.”

She gestured toward his hand. “Funny, it looks like the same bottle.”

“Oh it’s the same bottle, but it’s different whiskey.” He tipped back the bottle and took a drink ending with an “ahh” she
suspected was more for her benefit than his.

“You see, last night in my cabin it was ‘medicinal whiskey.’ That kind is rarely any good, but it helped you sleep, didn’t
it?”

She studied the amber liquid and had to admit she’d slept like a baby.

“There’s ‘mad whiskey,’ ‘happy whiskey’ and sometimes
‘just plain thirsty whiskey,’ but to night you’re needing the ‘bootstrap’ variety.”

She didn’t want to ask, but he’d known when he said it, she’d have no choice. “What’s that?”

“The kind of whiskey that makes you pull up your bootstraps and get back in the game.” He lifted her chin with his finger,
forcing her to look him in the eye. “You told me once you weren’t a quitter.” He narrowed his gaze in an unspoken challenge.
“Has something changed on that score?”

“I didn’t say I was going to quit.”

She knew his plan was to snap her from her despair, and it worked perfectly. Later, she would think about why he could manipulate
her so easily, even when she knew what he was doing. But for now, there was whiskey to drink. She lifted her glass in a toast,
downing the contents in one gulp.

Heaven help her.

Fire, brimstone, and all the Earth’s lava couldn’t have made more impact scorching down her throat to her gut. She gasped
and coughed while Dyer smacked her on the back, as though assaulting her would make the situation better.

“I must admit,” he said, “when you decide to do something, you go all in.”

He chuckled.

Not a good decision on his part.

She blinked her watering eyes and glared at him. “Please explain to me again.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Why I
need to learn to drink this . . . this vile liquid?”

He refilled her glass. “It’ll make a man out of you.”

“What if I don’t want to be a man?”

“Miss Mace, when you hit the tables in St. Louis, you’re going to have to forget you’re a lady and fight like a man. Otherwise,
you won’t stand a chance.”

She raised her glass. “And this will do it?”

He shrugged. “It’ll help.”

This time she held her nose. It didn’t burn as badly going down, but that was probably due to the fact her throat was gone
now, and the whiskey had skipped it on its way to her stomach. One more glass and she’d be hollow.

It wasn’t funny. Truly it wasn’t, but when she thought of her food bouncing around inside her like a ball in a barrel, a giggle
slipped out anyway.

She covered her mouth with her hand and reached her glass toward Dyer. “I’d like another, please.”

He slipped the cork back into the bottle. “I think you’ve had enough.”

“Oh, pa-shosh.”
Pa-shosh?
She fluttered her hand toward him, fully aware “pa-shosh” was not a word, but that wasn’t important. What
was
important was that it had become unbearably hot, and she was thirsty . . . or something.

“If I’m going to become a man, I need more than two drinks. I’ve delivered enough whiskey to know that most men consume mush
more than that.”