Wildblossom (6 page)

"A common enough sight in this part of the world, my lord," Manypenny intoned. "I believe they call it a tumbleweed."

"Ah."

The two men were beginning to attract attention. Immaculately dressed, they stood next to an assortment of expensive traveling trunks and pondered the future. It had been disconcerting enough, arriving at a train station located a good distance from town, and then they had suffered the indignity of paying for a ride into town in the most ramshackle wagon imaginable, driven by an equally broken-down fellow who appeared to shun the concept of bathing. The man had left them here, surrounded by their belongings, and Geoff had decided against soliciting advice from the driver regarding their next move.

"I sense that we are overdressed," Geoff remarked. His tailored tweed suit was set off by a vest of Prussian-blue cashmere, a round-collared shirt with charcoal pinstripes, a four-in-hand tie, and polished black oxfords. He wore no topcoat or hat, and the afternoon sun picked up the gleam of his plain gold signet ring and his ruffled hair. "Did we forget to pack my boots, chaps, and holster?"

"I fear so, my lord," Manypenny replied without expression.

Geoff's sculpted features relaxed into an appealing smile as he took in the sight of his manservant set against the backdrop of Cody, Wyoming. Manypenny was closer in height to seven feet than six, and he seemed to own an endless supply of dark suits, gray-striped vests, winged-collared shirts, and black ties. Today, in honor of his appearance outdoors, he had added a black wool overcoat and a black derby that looked as if it were squeezing his massive head.

"My lord," he said now, in a rare volunteered statement, "I hope that you will not forego your personal style of dressing, which is flawless, in deference to your surroundings. To replace your wardrobe with—" He grimaced. "—
chaps
would be nothing less than tragic."

Geoff tried to look serious as he nodded and replied, "Perhaps. At the moment, however, my wardrobe is the least of our concerns. I must seek out some advice about the local hotels before we're held up at gunpoint and stripped of our belongings." He inclined his head toward the group of surly characters gathering across the street to stare at them and their trunks.

"If you don't find lodgings that meet with your approval, my lord, perhaps you would consider turning back...."

"To London?" Geoff laughed at this notion. "Hardly. I'm made of sterner stuff than that—and so are you! Now then, I suggest that you have a seat while I go into this pub and have a word with the barman." He watched Manypenny perch on the edge of a large trunk, then walked the few yards to Purcell's Saloon.

Now that they had reached Cody, Geoff was more aware than ever of the uncertainty of this undertaking. A vague sense of danger danced over his nerves, and he reveled in each erratic sensation. Each minute that lay ahead promised to be unlike any he'd experienced in the previous three decades; it was exactly what he'd longed for. Manypenny would be aghast to learn just how willing his master was to throw off his old ways, including every stitch of his splendid wardrobe.

Stepping into the raucous, smoke-filled saloon, Geoff smiled with irony and thought, It's nothing like White's—thank God. He felt the keen scrutiny from other patrons and looked back calmly. At the bar, he ordered a whiskey and bided his time.

"New in town?" the bartender inquired laconically.

"Very observant of you," Geoff said with a smile. Extending his hand, he added, "My name is Geoffrey Weston. I've been admiring your town."

"Glad to meetcha." They shook hands. "I'm Tom Purcell; this here's my saloon."

From a nearby table someone hissed, "Geez-us! It's one of them sissy limeys!"

Geoff finished his whiskey, then turned and stared evenly at the man who had spoken, immediately recognizing him by his reddening face. No further action seemed necessary, and Geoff's gaze wandered to another pair of eyes that he'd felt burning a hole through his back. To his surprise, he found himself looking at the least-likely cowboy imaginable. He turned back to the bartender.

"Who, may I ask, is that very slight, bizarre-looking fellow seated in the corner?"

Purcell bit back a grin. "Seems to be a relative of Ben Avery's who's passin' through. Ben's the big sandy-haired cowpuncher next to him; he has a fine ranch south of here. The cousin wants a card game."

No sooner had Geoff digested this information than he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. Turning his head, he found himself looking down at the very person he and Purcell had been discussing. The fellow was even more peculiar-looking at close range. His head was dwarfed by a five-gallon white Stetson hat and a drooping mustache, and he wore an outlandish pair of angora chaps and oversized cowhide gloves.

"Howdy, stranger!" the odd-looking cowboy said in a hoarse voice. "The name's Coyote Matt."

Geoff blinked, but shook the glove extended toward him and felt the daintiness of the hand it concealed. "I beg your pardon." He leaned closer. "I'm not certain I heard correctly—"

"Coyote Matt! Yep, I trapped a passel of them critters in my day. More'n four thousand, I reckon. Don't s'pose they got coyotes in England."

"I'm not an authority, but no, I don't believe there are any coyotes in England." A wry smile flickered over Geoff's mouth.

"You got poker over there?"

His brows lifted slightly. "After a fashion."

"How 'bout a couple hands? Fancy dude like you could prob'ly win a lotta money from a scroungy coyote killer like me."

Coyote Matt's voice was so raspy that it was difficult for Geoff to make out exactly what was being said. "Sir, I suspect that you are trying to draw me into a game of chance because you believe
you
would be the winner, which might well be the case. In truth, I cannot afford the time, having just arrived in Cody—but I am willing to give you a half hour in the interest of cultivating good will among the townspeople. You see," Geoff explained, glancing back at Tom Purcell and then over the crowded tables of the saloon, "I intend to remain here for some time."

"Yahoo!" shouted Coyote Matt. "Cut the cards, Ben! I got me a game!"

* * *

"What extraordinary good fortune," Geoff remarked with convincing surprise as he glanced down at the winnings stacked on the table before him.

Ben kicked Shelby's shin and she flinched. "Maybe you lost enough,
Coyote Matt,"
he said in menacing tones.

"It's my deal," she replied, nearly forgetting to lower her voice. It was beginning to hurt her throat, talking like that, and the clouds of smoke in the saloon didn't help any. "You in, Ben? Titus?"

They both shook their heads, and Shelby stubbornly dealt the cards for five-card stud to herself and the Englishman. It had to be pure luck, him winning nearly all the five hundred dollars she'd brought for this occasion. They didn't have real games like poker in England. Shelby had read her share of Jane Austen novels, and in them the only card games were faro and whist. Certainly not poker! One more hand, she told herself, and the tide would turn in her favor, and then she would win it all back and then some!

Shelby looked at her cards and discovered that she was holding a pair of nines. They had each put in an opening bet of fifty dollars, and now she felt even more hopeful. Watching her pigeon, who had begun to appear more hawk-like as the game progressed, Shelby saw that he had discarded only two. She frowned and dealt him replacement cards, pretending to turn her attention back to her own hand but in fact studying his expression under her thick lashes. There could be no mistake to the practiced eye of a girl who had grown up in Deadwood, where gambling was the favorite sport: this fancy Weston character had definitely looked relieved when he saw his cards. At the very least, he must have three of a kind!

Shelby pondered her own pair of nines, discarded three, took three, and found that she had an even worse assortment than before. "It's your bet, sport," she said in her best casual cowboy voice.

Geoff nodded slowly, sipped his whiskey, and added two twenty-dollar bills to the pot.

Clenching her teeth with fear, Shelby capitulated and tossed down her cards. "I fold."

"Do you indeed? What a relief. I only had a pair of threes, but I felt I ought to give you a chance to win back a little of your money...." He shrugged. "Sorry."

Shelby began to tremble. How could this be happening? Now Ben's big hand disappeared under the table and found her thigh, squeezing right through the chaps until her eyes watered.

"Time to go home," he growled.

"One more hand," she said gruffly, and gave the cards to her opponent. "Your deal, Weston."

The fifty dollars that Shelby placed on the table was the last of the money she had... and also represented a large portion of the funds her father had given her to keep in reserve. If she lost it all, not only couldn't they buy farming equipment and more horses, but they wouldn't have enough money to make ends meet past summer. When the new cards lay before her, Shelby held her breath before picking them up. Her heart soared at the sight of two magnificent kings. This was her chance!

Shelby discarded three cards, and she nearly whooped with joy when she saw the new trio. One of them was another king!

Across the table, Geoff discarded two cards, but left the replacement pair lying face-down. Without looking at them, he gazed soberly at Coyote Matt. "Will you bet, sir?"

"Uh-huh. Titus, give me fifty."

"You are nuts!" Ben declared.

"You shut up!" she hissed, then turned burning blue eyes on Titus. "I'll pay you back."

The little gnome of a man appeared crestfallen. "I don't like it... but..." He pulled some bills from his pocket and handed them over. "All I have is thirty-five."

Shelby put it in the pot. "That's my bet."

"I'll meet you... and raise you a hundred," Geoff replied quietly.

Suddenly, she noticed that he had apparently forgotten to look at his new cards. An habitual bluffer! Flooded with elation, Shelby said, "I'm outta cash, but I'll make a deal with you, Weston. I have a ranch I can put up that's worth at least ten times as much as your pile of winnings. Whatta you say—how about my ranch against, oh, say, five thousand dollars? That's a
deal,
sport!" She kept her tone husky and offhand, but next to her she heard Ben's stunned intake of breath, while voices began to buzz around the big room. Cowboys who had been gathered around the other card game had by now drifted over to watch.

"Now wait just a minute," Ben shouted. "Titus, you aren't gonna allow this!?"

Titus Pym looked dejected. "I fear we have to, lad. What you don't know is that Fox sent me the deed to the ranch for safekeeping... and it's been signed over to—uh, Coyote Matt."

Ben turned on Shelby then. "Did you know?"

Panic began to well inside her as she whispered to him, "No, but I had to do this anyway, and it won't matter about the deed because I am not going to lose."

Speechless with rage, Ben jumped up and stormed out of the saloon, disappearing into the blinding sunlight. Shelby tried not to think about him, or about Titus's words. It had almost been easier to make the bet when it hadn't been real; now the ranch was really hers to lose. She stared into Geoffrey Weston's rich brown eyes and waited for his response, her heart thundering.

"I accept," he murmured, "on one condition. If, as you say, your ranch is worth much more than five thousand dollars, I could not accept more than half ownership of it should I win. I won't cheat you."

"Durned right you won't, 'cause
I'm
gonna win! But, okay, them terms sound fair enough." Shelby took a deep breath and lay down her cards. "Three kings, Weston. I doubt you can beat that, seein' as you ain't even studied the new cards you took!"

"So I haven't," he remarked. "Well, let's see what I do have." Geoff displayed the pair of aces and queen of hearts in his hand, then turned over the unseen cards to reveal yet another ace and one more queen. "Egad. What do you call it—a full house?"

Shocked tears stung Shelby's eyes. She nodded blindly, unable to look at Titus or this Englishman who now owned half her father's ranch. Perhaps this was all a nightmare and she would wake up in another moment....

"Well-played," Titus was saying to Weston. "I'll take Coyote Matt and fetch the wagon, and what do you say we meet you in front and take you out to the ranch? That'll give you a minute to gather your winnings." He wanted, above all, to get Shelby out of the saloon before she forgot herself and everyone saw that Coyote Matt was really Shelby Matthews. It was enough that she'd lost all that money and torn the ranch in two, but if the rest of the story got out, she'd never be able to show her face in Cody again. Let them think a crack-brained cousin was responsible.

"It's kind of you to offer, but I'm afraid that I have some trunks... and a manservant who is waiting with them outside. Perhaps we ought to hire a separate vehicle."

Titus had taken Shelby's arm and was guiding her toward the doorway, past the dozens of curious cow-punchers. "No, no, we'll make room...." Scared to death she'd faint on him, he called back, "See you outside, then!"

Geoff sat still for a minute, thinking. He felt strangely overwhelmed, a bit guilty, and reckless with anticipation for the adventure ahead. It didn't seem possible that he'd just arrived in Cody an hour ago and now he had a home—no, much better than that, a
ranch.