Wild Cards and Iron Horses (28 page)

Jon sucked in his breath. None of these men were lightweights. He’d faced them before and beaten them all.

But not without his brace.

The calm voice in the back of his mind reminded him that it was a prop, nothing more than a physical aid to keep his hand on the table and to play like a regular man would, hold the cards if he wanted, toss in the chips to make the bets faster and keep the game going. But the louder, shriller voice pointed out that the attraction of the other players to the hand, to the shiny copper and steel braces, was part of what made him so good at what he did. The men would focus on the hand and give away their tells like free candy to a hungry child, throwing Jon easy victories.

Except now there was nothing but his maimed, crippled hand lying on the table, the rippled scars staring back at him like a morbid bull’s-eye. His left side ached, probably from falling off the wagon. Right now he’d give half of the chips sitting in front of him to get into a hot tub of water and have some lovely lady scrub his back and massage out the aches and pains.

Especially if that lovely lady’s name was Samantha.

He gave a visible shake, startling the spectators who muttered amongst themselves. The dealer tilted his head to one side, waiting for his request.

“Three.” He tossed everything but the pair of fives into the dealer’s grasp. Out of the corner of his eye Jon spotted Harry studying the limp, impotent hand lying on the table.

It was going to be a long, long game.

A bead of sweat ran down the side of Jon’s cheek, tickling him where it landed in the hollow of his collarbone under the fresh, crisp shirt. In only a few hands he’d lost more than half his chips, mostly to Trenblinko.

Drummond poked a wooden disk around in front of him, one of only a handful left. He scowled at the dealer who maintained a stoic face and dealt out another set of hands. The ante already sat in the center of the table, a small pyramid of chips.

Two aces, a ten and two threes. Jon’s pulse began to throb loudly in his ears. A possible full house.

“Open with twenty,” he croaked through dry lips, tossing a chip into the center stack. The other players followed without comment.

“One.” Jon flipped the odd card out. He accepted the final card, sliding it into the pile on the table.

Felcher and Bakersfield both threw down their hands, guarding what little money they had left.

Drummond nodded, adding to the pile. Trenblinko grunted before doubling the bet.

Jon stared at Trenblinko for a long minute before matching the bet. Harry chomped down hard on his cigar, throwing his cards down with a curse.

The Russian doubled again.

Jon studied the tabletop. The way his opponent held the cards. The way he touched the felt with his free hand. The way he didn’t look at anyone or anything save the cards.

That was it.

The audience roared as Jon pushed another pile of chips into the stack, doubling again.

Trenblinko blinked once, twice, before flinging his cards down. The crowd let out a collective sigh.

Handleston didn’t smile as he scooped the chips towards him with his one good hand. He began to separate the different types, earning himself a few seconds to compose himself. Leading the pack almost guaranteed a win, but he couldn’t afford the luxury of relaxing, not yet.

“Lucky man.” Drummond lit up another cigar, chucking the ashy stub behind him into the crowd.

“Aye.” Felcher coughed. “Lucky cripple.”

A low rumble rose from the spectators and the ousted players at the blatant display of bad manners.

Jon looked down at his right hand. He stared at it, his eyebrows rising until there was no forehead left to rule.

“Oh, my God… I’ve got a wart on my thumb!” He grinned at the other players, continuing to stack his winnings.

The crowd burst into relieved laughter. Felcher’s face turned scarlet as he studied his own meager pile of chips. Trenblinko said nothing but continued to stare at the table. Bakersfield took advantage of the break to fondle a scantily clad waitress who giggled and moved closer, draping herself over the kid’s shoulders. Drummond nodded at Handleston.

Someone placed a cup of coffee at Jon’s elbow, nudging him slightly to make sure he saw it. He looked up, words of thanks on his lips, and paused, his pulse increasing.

Samantha smiled, standing by his side. “Thought you’d need a little something to help you stay awake. You had quite a night.”

Jon’s mouth went dry. She’d come to him, just like she’d said. Between hands he’d had moments of fear, of trepidation, that she’d turn her back on him once the danger was over, once the rush of adrenaline left. His heart felt as if it’d burst with the joy, the pure delight that she was here, with him, right now.

Her hand landed on his shoulder, the warmth seeping through his tired body. Delicious sparks flowed down along his skin, causing him to swell with pride. “I’d bring you some tea, but I think it’d make it tougher for you to win.”

Jon chuckled. He was reenergized and ready to win this game.

“Can we get back to the game?” Drummond laughed. “I’m an old man and don’t have enough time left to see you swooning over a girl, Handleston.”

The laughter from the audience brought Jon back down to earth. He cleared his throat as a blushing Sam moved back into the crowd, disappearing from sight. “I’m ready.”

“I bet.” It was Bakersfield, the pup. “Don’t worry. If you don’t win, I’ll take care of her.” He pinched the ample bottom of the woman, causing her to squeal. “I know how to treat the ladies.”

Ignoring him, Jon lifted the cup to his mouth. The dark liquid hit his tongue, burning down to his stomach.

Putting it down, Jon gestured to the dealer. “I think we’re ready to resume, sir.” He motioned to the other players, seeing their response. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends…”

Bakersfield tossed the last of his chips in the ante, letting them bounce to the center of the table. The smart-mouthed rookie let out a low sigh, so light that few people caught it, other than the remaining players who focused on the young man like wolves eyeing a newborn calf bleating for its mother. Both of his hands were on the table now, having released the young woman who wandered away a few minutes ago.

Trenblinko said nothing, staring at his cards. Felcher grunted as a shot glass of whiskey appeared at his side, and he emptied the glass without comment. Drummond chewed on his cigar slowly, rolling it around in his mouth.

An ace, three, five, seven and nine. Wonderful if he were playing for prime numbers, but useless to him right now. Jon’s attention turned to the suits. Three spades, one heart and one diamond. Not much chance of pulling a flush out of that. Putting the cards down on the table, he took another sip of the cold coffee sitting at his side.

“See you and raise ten.” Felcher glared at Drummond. “I heard you never served, sir.”

The older man puffed a smoke ring in the air. He leaned back in his chair before returning his attention to the table. “I don’t see how that affects my bid, sir.” He pushed a chip into the growing pile.

“And ten more.”

Bakersfield crossed his arms. Lips pressed tightly together, he looked as if he were about to cry.

Jon threw his cards towards the dealer. No use losing more money than he had to. And if Felcher wanted to get into a duel with Drummond, he’d have to try a lot harder. As it was, Bakersfield would be gone after this hand and that would be one less player to worry about.

His right hand throbbed. Now free to act, he rubbed the rippled scars with his left hand. He ground the knuckles into the rough skin as if he were putting out one of Drummond’s cigars. Jon turned his attention to the ongoing duel between the three men, fighting the urge to turn around to look for Samantha. The distraction would be too much and right now he had a chance to study his opponents unhindered and, perhaps, finally finish his quest.

As long as he pulled better cards in the future, that was.

The throbbing subsided, dying down to a low itch.

Less than an hour later, Felcher took off his hat and tossed it into the center of the table. The battered grey felt bounced over the pile of chips he had just lost to Jon.

“Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.” He got to his feet, bowing slightly to the other players. “I do hope to meet all of you again at the tables.” His eyes strayed to Trenblinko. “Even a Russian bastard like yourself.”

Trenblinko didn’t react. His eyes stayed focused on the table. The Confederate veteran retrieved his hat, gave a snort and walked away. The crowd parted before him and then swallowed him back up.

Another bead of sweat ran down Jon’s skin, settling into the small of his back under the shirt. The temperature in the room had risen dramatically over the past hour. The crowd pressed forward and back, swaying with bottled emotions ready to break free at the first chance.

He glanced over at Drummond, seeing the old man mop his face with an already-soaked grey-colored handkerchief. The Russian just sat there, not flinching as the sweat ran off him and landed on the tabletop, instantly absorbed into the dark green velvet.

The dealer dished out the next hand. A middle-aged man with a sharply receding hairline, he flipped the cards at the players with as little concern as if he were tossing candy at a group of children.

Jon studied the three stacks of chips, making quick mental calculations. Drummond was the worst off.

Trenblinko was tied with Jon for the lead. He pulled up the cards with his left hand.

Two sevens, an eight, three and four. In all four suits, one pair. Maybe a straight, if he was really lucky.

Trenblinko grunted, adding two chips to the ante stack in the middle of the table. “Raise twenty.”

Jon used his right hand to scrape the correct amount towards the interior.

Drummond nodded, contributing his money to the pile. The cigar rotated around his mouth, moving from right to left. “And I raise you twenty more.”

The Russian’s left eyebrow twitched so slightly that Jon wasn’t sure if he’d seen it or not. Then the large man tossed the money towards the stack.

Jon looked down. “I’ll match.” He slid the chips across the felt. “And I’ll take one card.” A risk, but he couldn’t show any vulnerability right now. Tossing more cards would announce his lack of a strong hand, and this late in the game could be paramount to suicide.

The seven of hearts burned into his hand, completing the trio. His lungs ached, wanting to let out a light sigh of pleasure, but he held back. He wasn’t the only one who watched for tells. Behind him the crowd hummed, probably making side bets and starting rumors. Along with a few pickpockets looking to make their own fortune, he wagered. Jon wanted to turn around, seek Sam out in the crowd, but he couldn’t risk it. Still, he felt her presence nearby, a calming influence in the middle of the high-stress world he lived in.

“He seems like quite the fellow.”

Sam jumped a bit at the familiar voice at her elbow, relaxing slightly when she recognized Mr. Smithston. The businessman stood to one side of the crowd, eyeing the spectators. “What do you know of him other than his liking for poker?”

“He’s a fine man. An honorable man.” She glanced back at the table for a second. “A very good man.”

“I believe he had some sort of brace on his hand, if I recall the reports correctly,” the businessman asserted. His silent associate remained at his side. “I don’t see it.”

“No.” Samantha lowered her voice. “It…broke.” Tears threatened to burst free.

The white-haired man frowned. “I see. And it was unfixable?” His left eyebrow rose slightly.

Her father interrupted, moving to stand at her side. “Well, now, that’s a story. He came to us to have it fixed—a spring popped out—and then it got broke again, when he saved my daughter’s life.” He rubbed the back of his head, a sheepish look on his face. “It’s a bit of a mess when you say it like that, but it’s a good long yarn, really.”

“A spring?” the second businessman spoke up. “Where is the brace now?”

Sam put one hand in her pocket and came out with a mess of copper and steel wires. “This may be the best of it.” She sighed, looking at the pile. “And I did a fine job of fixing it, if I do say so myself.”

Mr. Smithston shook his head. “And then you broke it?”

“No, he broke it himself,” her father interrupted, “saving my daughter, he did. As I said.”

The two gentlemen faced each other, sharing glances of both dismay and shock. Sam eyed her father, who shook his head in response.

Mr. Smithston nodded at Sam’s father, encouraging him to continue. “And the equimech brought him back? Without any problems?”

“With flying colors.” He puffed his chest out just a bit. Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes at his obvious pride. “And when we got back into town, we found it in front of the saloon with some kid watching it. You know the rest. Now, I’m not one to go bragging about our skills, but I rode that beast all the way out into the desert in the middle of the night with the eye lights blaring, and he rode it all the way back into town over that rough terrain without stopping for refueling or nothing. And she didn’t even throw a nail.”

“Hmm.” The businessman looked at his associate, who scribbled more notes on his pad. “That does seem like a very fair road test. And then some.” He nodded, pressing his lips together tightly. “I think that, given the situation, you did indeed improve on the original designs. And that shows a great amount of ingenuity and initiative that the investors would approve of. After all, the entire idea is to keep moving forward.” He turned towards the pair, bowing slightly. “Very impressive, Mr. and Miss Weatherly. Very impressive.”

Samantha opened her mouth to speak, falling silent as William and Robert Phillips took their place beside her. The two deputies glanced around the small circle, finally settling on Samantha. Inwardly she shivered under their scrutiny as if she was the one who had committed a crime.

Robert was the first to speak, nodding politely to the other men as he touched the brim of his hat.

“Ma’am. Thought you’d like to know that Victor Morton is safe behind bars and waiting for the judge’s arrival in a day or so. Doctor says he’s fine, just needed a stitch or two to close those cuts.” He spat to one side, narrowly missing hitting a pair of boots. “You did a fine job of putting him down, I’d say.”