THE WINNING HAND
BY
C.K. CRIGGER
Smashwords Editon
Copyright 2004 C.K. Crigger
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Dedication
This book is for the men in my life. My dad, Earl Wright, who was a bridge to those olden days; my husband Gary, because there is no one on earth more steadfast and true; and to Jay and Justin, who mean the world to me. There’s a piece of each of them in every one of my heroes.
The Winning Hand
Chapter 1
Washington State, 1893
Caroline Pruett’s heartbeat pounded in her eardrums with a noise she was sure everyone around the table must hear. Black dots danced in front of her eyes. Hunger gnawed at the lining of her stomach with an appetite the few sips of beer she’d allowed herself did little t allay. Now, when it was too late, she knew she should have bought the bowl of soup instead of the beer. At least that way she could die with a full stomach.
She watched the other gamblers toss their money into the pot as carelessly as though they had planted a seed and were watching it grow. As if each one had unlimited resources and success was on his horizon. Like Walters, throwing good money after bad when he must know his cards didn’t stack up. Harsh resentment rose inside her.
Glory! She must be out of her mind. Crazy as an Indian drunk on trade whiskey, or worse, a Chinaman sucking at a water pipe in an opium den, dazed and mad. This was it. As soon as this hand of cards played out, one of three things was going to happen. Number one, she would have the wherewithal to rent a room and eat until a respectable means of supporting herself and King came along. Number two, she would need to talk to the owner of this establishment and see about selling herself into bondage.
Caroline’s palms were slick with perspiration as the dealer’s call came around again to her. A whore. Maybe she could have flyers printed up, and advertisement of her services.
Caroline Pruett, whore.
Inexperienced, but a quick learner.
Any hour of the day or night.
She didn’t even know precisely what a whore did, how much to charge, or what she was worth—which left the third option—and possibly the best choice. Take the Merwin & Hulbert six-shooter her granddad had brought west, put the barrel in her mouth and pull the trigger. Send a .38 slug clean through the top of her head. And pray by all that’s holy the gun didn’t misfire, as it was wont to do.
***
Micah Sutton gathered the cards the dealer spun onto the table in front of him and stole a look under the top one. Could’ve been worse, he figured.
Sitting back, he let the cold night air, blown into the valley by the erratic high country wind, wash over him. The swinging half-doors flapped, stirring the tobacco smoke wreathing the men seated around the table.
The dealer, Nelson, rolled an unlit cigar in his mouth, and glanced at the cards he’d drawn before peering across the scarred table at the players. A coal-oil lamp suspended from a chain above the table cast a glare over the top of each gambler’s head, leaving their faces in shadow.
“Well, boys? What do you say? Walters?” Nelson aimed the question at the man on his left.
Walters shook his head. “I’ll take two.” He anted a five-dollar gold piece, made his discards and fitted the replacement cards into his hand as though disgusted.
“Mr. Everly?” The dealer asked the next man.
Everly, the town butcher, a profession illustrated by the bloodstained apron he wore, scowled. “It’d take more than five cards to give me a hand. I’ll fold. Wife’s gonna fill me full of buckshot when I get home as it is.” He tossed down his cards and put his coat on over the apron, ready to leave.
He didn’t, though. Not just yet. To Sutton’s amusement, Everly moved around behind him and stood watching over his shoulder.
“Mr. Greenleigh?” Nelson prompted.
“Three.” The black-suited cattlemen watched the dealer’s hands with narrow attention as the cards landed in front of him. He picked them up, his expression non-committal.
“Cowboy?” This time Nelson’s question was directed at him.
Sutton pondered his decision for a moment. Putting it off, he took a sip from the almost full shot glass of red-eye on the table at his elbow. He took another peek at the cards in front of him, made up his mind, and tossed a deuce onto the discard pile. “Give me one.”
He was sixty dollars up in the game. Two months wages he hadn’t had to freeze for, sweat for, or starve for. He’d worked hard over the last ten years, starting with Ernie Felgenhauer when he was just fifteen. A button, weighing every purchase before he bought, making certain the nickels and dimes didn’t slip through his grasp. He did not intend to lose this stake by incautious play. Glancing at the new card and fitting it in with the others, he relaxed. He could live a whole winter on sixty bucks.
Everly grunted.
“How about you?” the dealer asked the final player. “You want cards?”
Sutton had almost forgotten the one Nelson addressed. The kid had been real quiet and not playing well. Seemed nervy. His hands quivered as he held the pasteboards close to his chest, his floppy-brimmed hat shielding his face from the others with only an occasional swift liquid flash of dark eyes.
Mex? Sutton wondered. Or maybe a Celestial? The kid’s hands were tan, small, and fine-boned like a Chink’s sometimes were. He hadn’t removed the hat the whole time Micah had been here, and his short glass of beer had lasted longer even than Micah’s seldom tasted whiskey.
The kid had anted up five single dollar bills at the beginning of the game just like the rest of them. Five more greenbacks lay on the table beside his beer. Unless Sutton missed his guess, it was all the money he had. The kid would be gone from the game as soon as this hand played out.
That’s all right, he told himself. A lad this young had no business gambling his wages away. Teach him a lesson now that might just keep him out of trouble later on. Best never to depend on the turn of a card.
The pause lengthened while the boy stared at his cards as if he were thinking—or willing them with his mind to be what he needed. At last he said, “I’ll keep what I’ve got.” His low, husky voice shook just the least bit.
Sutton’s hazel eyes narrowed in a sudden speculation. Those were feminine hands—and that was a light voice. Could this be a she masquerading as a he? The shapeless old coat and wide-legged pants the kid wore told him nothing except the person in them was short and slight of build. His curiosity roused, Sutton leaned forward, trying to see beneath the brim of the pulled-down hat, but a hank of light-colored hair had fallen, hiding all except a smooth, clenched jaw. Neither Mex nor Chinee then, with that hair. He was certain it was a woman. What it all came down to is he felt bad about taking anybody’s last cent. Cash money was hard to come by in these depressed times, most particularly if you were young, inexperienced, or female.
“I’ll call and raise you five,” Nelson said. His coin whirled onto the table’s center where the gold gleamed in the pool of light. He drew two. “Walters?”
Walters’ five dollars came in the form of four bills and some change. “Give me three,” he said, pulling the discards from his hand. Sutton was betting he didn’t have to worry about Walters.
The cattleman, Greenleigh, was a different kettle of fish. He anted up and took two, the lines that radiated from the corners of his mouth tightening and growing deeper as he looked them over.
The turn came back to Sutton. “I’m good,” he said.
Pushing the neat stack of five one-dollar bills into the pot, the woman once more stayed with the cards dealt, which was enough to make Sutton wonder if he was the one playing a fool’s game. What the hell? he thought. If he lost this hand, he was still money ahead. The feeling he had about the game remained.
Nelson folded, and the next go ’round began. Walters finally had the sense to quit, and the cattleman raised the pot another five, which Sutton matched. It was up to the woman, if she could scrounge enough to make the raise.
Sutton waited, not even tense. With the proceeds from this pot, he’d be able to take on a hand in the spring, at least for long enough to help with the branding. The building supply store here in town had a used window for sale, too, a luxury he hadn’t let himself think about before. He thought about it now, excitement tickling his nerves. He longed for his house, although built of logs, to have that pane-glass window looking out over his lower pasture. The ranch was a long-awaited dream that needed only his hard work to be built into a fine home.
***
“Your turn,” Nelson said, drawing Caroline out of a panicked daze with his impatient roughness. He hadn’t approved letting a female in the game, and she knew he’d be glad when—if—she went broke.
A voice inside her head was screaming at her to throw down the cards. Not get in any deeper. These men already had her money, but by God, they didn’t have her self-respect. Tomorrow she’d find work, enough to put food in her own and King’s bellies. She was due a break and this game appeared more foolish by the second. The voice, she realized, sounded just like her grandmother’s/
The voice sounded very much like her grandmother’s.
But Caroline couldn’t stop herself from eyeing the cards again. Two black kings, two red queens. They looked like they belonged together. They looked unbeatable. Kings and queens, what could be better than that? Beads of sweat gathered along her hairline and under her arms. The sun-browned cowboy had already won a sizeable pot with a hand much like this, only he’d had a pair each of sixes and tens. In fact, the cowboy had claimed two pots, the first one with a small straight. It was, she assured that inner voice, her turn to win.
“Come on, come on. Pay up or fold. Only choices you got.” Easy to see the cattleman was accustomed to folks dancing to his tune. His stubby forefinger tapped on the little brick he’d made of his cards where they lay in front of him.
He figured on winning, no doubt about that, clearly confident his cards would do the trick. Caroline questioned whether his confidence was anything more than a sham. He’d bluffed in the hand before this one, she remembered. Would he try again, or did he have cards better than hers?
The cowhand—Sutton—leaned back, smiling slightly, and took another tiny sip of his hoarded whiskey. He showed none of the cattleman’s impatience while he waited for her to make her play. He knew exactly what he had, and what it would take to beat him. He’d been studying her, long enough and hard enough to frizzle her nerves. She didn’t care for the way the corners of his mouth turned up.
Caroline’s instincts told her the cattleman must be the one she had to worry about. Greenleigh might or might not be running a bluff, hoping intimidation of both her and the cowhand would cause them to drop out. The gambit hadn’t worked on the cowboy and it wasn’t going to work on her.
“Well?” Greenleigh interjected. “Shit or get off the pot.”
Caroline’s stomach gripped painfully. She knew she had to act. But what to do? The means to meet Sutton’s raise rested in her pocket. Still, should she—or shouldn’t she? King was all she had. How could she risk losing him at the toss of a card? Yet she knew if she didn’t take the chance, then everything she’d wagered until now was lost.
There were no sure things in life, she’d discovered in this last year. The only thing she could count on for certain, was that if she didn’t find a way out of trouble soon, she could no longer afford the horse anyway. And a horse like King needed to be fed. He was no range animal, able to live off the land.
Yes, she decided. The money piled in the center of the table must certainly belong to her this go round. She’d been dogged with bad luck for so terribly long. It must be due to break—must be.
Beneath the table, her booted feet crossed at the ankles in superstitious appeal. Her fingers fumbled in her coat pocket and clutched King’s papers.
“I own a horse,” Caroline heard herself saying. “I’ll wager him.”
Greenleigh snorted. “I don’t need another ten-dollar horse. Money is the name in this game, youngster. Cold cash.”
Caroline forced her voice an octave lower and infused it with amusement she was miles from feeling. He hadn’t cottoned that she was a woman, and she’d prefer he didn’t, just yet. Eyes down, she kept her face hidden. “Well, mister, since I don’t intend on losing him, you won’t have to worry. But he’s not a ten-dollar horse.”
“Huh,” the cattleman growled. “That’s what every thirty-a-month hand says about his broke-down old cow pony.”
Her shoulders jerked straight. “Does the name Pruett mean anything to you?”
She felt the cowboy’s eyes touch her again, sharpening in speculation. A mistake to say the name. Why did she always have to be guilty of pride, chief among her many sins? A fault she must learn to quash, lest she give away all her secrets.
“There was a Mrs. Samuel Pruett over on the Okanogan River,” Sutton said. “She raised thoroughbred horses. Racing stock, some of the best. Ernie Felgenhauer, my old boss, bought one or two from her. Heard she died.”
“She did.” Caroline fought to sound matter-of-fact. “This horse is one of her breeding.” The last, probably, that she’d ever see unless she won the fifty dollars on the table. She remembered Felgenhauer, his being such an unusual name it had stuck in her mind. Life had been better then, she recollected. Before Gran got so bad.
“Then it ain’t a ten-dollar horse,” Sutton said, supporting her declaration.
“No.” She drew King’s papers from the inside pocket of her baggy coat and set them carefully on the table.
Greenleigh shrugged, his irritation patent. “All right, all right. I agree. Throw in the bill of sale and let’s play cards. Cowboy, it’s up to you. You in?”
Without hesitation Sutton tossed in his covering bet, the gold piece landing solid on top of King’s papers where her fingertips lingered. “Done. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Caroline’s pulse hammered as the cattleman spread his cards. He had...her heart leapt. He had nothing. A single pair of aces is all. King was safe. She was safe, and they’d both be able to eat their fill for the next while. Jubilation bubbled inside her.
With a certain cachet, she snapped her cards down. “A pair of kings and a pair of queens.”
“Damn.” Greenleigh flicked his losing cards with a fingernail. “Beats me. Well, like I said. I don’t need another horse around the place with winter coming on. Especially one just standing in the corral eating his head off.”
Caroline wasn’t listening to him. She was already reaching for King’s papers to restore them to her deep inside pocket. King ahead of the cash.
But Sutton’s large, brown mitt swept hers aside before she could grasp the document. He gathered in the money and King’s papers in one smooth sweeping motion. “Hold on,” he said, not unkindly. “Not so fast. The pot’s mine.”
Caroline froze, her hand still outstretched. “What?”
“Mine,” he repeated. “I’ve got the winning hand. Three of a kind.”
Her eyes locked head on with his. “Can’t be,” she breathed, swallowing on a choking lump that filled her aching throat. “You won the last two. There’s nobody lucky enough to win three in a row.”
“Three in a row, three of a kind.” His cheerfulness sounded obscene. “Count ‘em for yourself.”
“Can’t be,” she said again. She couldn’t make her eyes follow his pointing finger, although her peripheral vision was telling her brain what he said was the truth. “I don’t believe it!” she said. “You....” Slowly, because her legs felt both numb and limp at the same time, she dragged herself to her feet, gripping the edge of the rough wooden table with both hands.
His already firm jaw hardened, teeth coming together with a sharp snap. He stood up, too, his chair skidding from under him. “Are you calling me a liar? Or a cheat?”
“No. No! But...” Panic turned her into jelly. Her voice trembled to a stop. She knew he hadn’t been cheating. But Lady Luck preferred to sit on his shoulder rather than hers, and now there was nothing left. Nothing. She was finished. What she needed was to find someplace private and put the gun to her head. Be done with it. Then someone could take the gun, too, and sell it. Maybe it was worth enough to pay for a pauper’s grave.
With an inarticulate cry, she wrenched away from the table’s support and scuttled through the Old Dominion’s flapping batwing doors into the night.
Chapter 2
“Well, hell. That’s a woman,.” Everly remarked.
“I coulda told you that,” Nelson said, his lip curling in a smirk
Everly grunted and turned to watch Caroline flee, only to stop short and peer over the top of the half-doors. “Sutton,” he said over his shoulder, “you’re gonna be a happy man. Looks like you’ve just won yourself a fine looking horse. A thoroughbred, unless I miss my guess, and he’s uncut.”
A stallion of Pruett breeding! Sutton didn’t even try to damp down the elation that soared inside him at this news. Elation, mixed with a touch of regret. Rejoicing in another’s fell luck wasn’t his way.
“I’d have rebated the lady a couple dollars eatin’ money, had I got the chance,” he said.
The cattleman barked a short, harsh laugh. “Then you’re a hell of a lot more generous and forgiving than I’d be, was I you. That pickle-puckered little bitch same as called you a liar and a card-cheat. ”
“I cleaned her out,” Sutton said mildly. “I reckon she took it hard.” However, if there’d been much more such talk out of her, she might’ve felt Sutton’s wrath on the seat of her pants.
Stowing his winnings in his pocket, Sutton edged into the doorway alongside the storekeeper. Together, they watched the woman strip the saddle from the back of a sleek blood bay sporting one white foot. The elation rose again. Ten-dollar horse? Maybe fifty times ten, the potential value much more. Although he wanted to hurry outside and take possession, a surge of pity held him back. Maybe it was the way the woman touched the bay’s mane and clung there. He’d probably be doing the same thing if he were wearing the other’s boots. The only part he found hard to cipher was why she’d been allowed in the game in the first place, then risked ownership of her clearly prized horse. Micah determined that before he left town, he’d best make sure the animal hadn’t been reported stolen.
Everly’s sharp gaze zeroed in on the woman’s backside. “Isn’t right, a female wearin’ britches,” he muttered.
Micah shrugged. “I won’t argue that.”
Nelson remained seated at the table, shuffling cards and waiting for the next game to begin, but Greenleigh and Walters joined the butcher and Micah where they stood.
“She’s stealing that saddle,” Greenleigh exclaimed. “Ain’t you going to stop her?”
Micah shook his head. “The saddle wasn’t part of the bet. She’s welcome to it.”
***
Caroline’s flight stopped as soon as she saw the saddle sitting on King’s back. Gran had given her that saddle six years ago, on her fourteenth birthday when Caroline rebelled against a sidesaddle. It had been ordered custom-made from a harness maker over on the coast, and although a little worn now, it must still have some value. She supposed that provided she made the price cheap enough, someone might be willing to give her a dollar or two for it. Maybe enough for a few meals and a night’s lodging. Stave off putting the gun to her head for another day.
She felt the men from the card game staring at her, their eyes boring into her back like an auger into ice. Still shocked at learning she was a woman, she supposed, like they’d all been made fools of. Or else making sure she didn’t renege on the bet and take off on the horse. The cowhand didn’t look all that prosperous. She figured the first thing he’d do is sell King for whatever he could get, then gamble the money away. She doubted he was this lucky every day. It wouldn’t matter to him, a range-roving cowhand, that the horse’s blood went back into antiquity, traceable to the Barb.
“King,” she whispered, pushing her hat aside and resting her forehead against his smooth red hide. “Oh, glory, what have I done?” What had she been thinking? All of the sudden, she didn’t remember. She’d have cried if there had been any tears left in her. But there weren’t. Not a one.
Caroline slid the saddle off the horse, surprised at how heavy it felt. She hadn’t been eating enough lately. Not since the rancher she’d helped with a last cutting of hay finally, when it became convenient, noticed she was female and let her go. And judging from the nausea roiling her innards, those few sips of beer earlier had been a huge mistake. They threatened to return via the same route they’d taken on the way down.
Glory, she was tired. The hour was late and the town quiet, its boardwalk rolled up and put it away for the night. All of the businesses were locked tight except for the Old Dominion and a dingy hotel across the way. There’d be no one around to buy her saddle until morning. But then, she’d been sleeping rough for a while. What did one more night matter? Now she thought on it, Gill’s Livery must be the best place to find a buyer for her gear, which meant since she’d end up there anyway, she might as well go now and get a jump on tomorrow. Be there early for when the proprietor came in. No one should object too much if she made her bed in the hay and caught a few hours sleep first. As long as the cold didn’t keep her awake, or the hunger—or the loss. Glory! What was she going to do without King?
Her hand lingered on the horse’s neck and ran under his chin. A final goodbye. His new owner couldn’t begrudge her that. The horse was warm under her palm, his bulk familiar and comforting. How many days, weeks, months, had he been her only companion in the sad days after the ranch was sold for back taxes. A faint smile quirked her mouth. She’d taught him some first-rate tricks during that time. How long, she wondered, until he forgot them?
Although she knew he watched from inside the Old Dominion, Sutton made no move to order her away from the horse. She only hoped he didn’t intend on leaving King hitched in the street all night.
But what happened to the animal wasn’t her concern anymore, she told herself, trying to believe the lie. Resolutely, she turned her back and slumped off down the street, toting the saddle.
A storm blew down the valley from the mountains, flapping the brim of her too large hat. Snow, invisible in the night, already blanketed the high country and winter rode on the northerly wind. An empty tin can spun rattling across the street in front of her. Bits of an old newspaper and dead leaves from the few trees left in town gathered in moving, rustling heaps.
The livery loomed in front of Caroline. She headed for the entry set off to the side of double doors wide enough to roll a wagon through. Catching the smaller door before it could slam shut on her heels, she glanced quickly around the interior. There wasn’t much to see before Stygian darkness took away her already precarious night vision.
She stood still, poised for flight, waiting until her eyes accustomed themselves before settling on a place to drop her gear. From her right she heard the sharp snort as a man awakened. The night man, she imagined, sleeping through his shift unless someone needed him. Which she did not. She froze where she was, her arms trembling under the saddle’s weight, until he should go back to sleep.
“Anyone out there?” His call sounded querulous, like that of an old man. A retired cowhand, most likely. One who’d spent his whole life around livestock, but who’d gotten too stove-up to continue working on a ranch.
Put out to pasture, Caroline supposed. Useless to anyone. Like her. Only he was lucky in that he’d found work.
Her lungs barely moving, she cocked her head and listened, aware of him listening, too. He may have sensed a presence, but lacked the ambition to investigate the slight noise. Maybe he was afraid of outlaws—which also sounded a lot like her.
After a bit he said, “Goddamn wind,” and his cot creaked as he settled again.
She waited, motionless, until he began to snore. A horse shifted stance in a stall. Once she heard the pad of a hunting barn cat, and the squeak of a mouse trying to evade it. After a bit, Caroline moved softly down a line of stalls until she found an empty one. A pile of clean straw bedding lay heaped in the corner. She spread her lone blanket over the straw and lay down, resting her head on the saddle. Pulling her coat around her, she closed her eyes and tried not to think.
***
With the game played out and the money all won, or lost, the card players called it a night. Uninvited, Greenleigh walked with Sutton over to the livery.
“The more I think on the stud, the more I’d like to buy him from you,” Greenleigh said, harkening to a conversation he’d begun quick as he’d caught sight of the animal. “I’ve a mind to take him around to a race meet or two and see how he does. Name your price and we’ll dicker.”
“He ain’t for sale.” Sutton led the horse down the empty street, bridle reins draped across his shoulder. He already felt pride of ownership. The bay walked, calm as an old donkey, side-by-side with Micah’s gray gelding like they’d been raised together in the same pasture. This was the best-behaved stallion he’d run across in a while, he noted. Someone had trained him well. The woman? Or had the horse known a man’s touch before this?
“Well then, I’ve got a half-blooded mare I’d like to pair him with,” Greenleigh urged. “If you won’t sell, how do you feel about giving me a breeding come spring?”
“Sure,” Micah said. “I figure $100 should be about right for the use of him.”
Give? He didn’t reckon on giving anything away free.
Greenleigh clamped his hat on his head as the wind threatened to steal it away. “$100? Don’t you think that’s a tad high for an untried stud?”
“The woman—” Sutton caught himself. “The girl said this is a Pruett horse. That’s good enough for me. It’ll be interesting to study on his papers. My old boss, Felgenhauer, paid a $200 stud fee three years ago for the horse I’d bet is this one’s pappy. Mister, you’d be getting a bargain at a hundred.”
“Is that right? What did the mare throw?”
“Filly.”
“Any good?”
“Fel ain’t run her yet, if that’s what you’re asking. Or started to work her much. Come spring we’ll all see.” Micah knew Felgenhauer thought a lot of the filly. The old man hand-fed her a sugar lump every time he visited the corral.
Sutton didn’t suppose he’d have any trouble keeping his fledgling ranch afloat on stud fees alone once word got around he had another of that breeding. When this gol-danged depression the country was suffering ended and his cattle started paying off, he figured to be real particular about the mares he allowed with the stud. Put a limit on and keep the value high.
“That’s kind of like buying a pig-in-a-poke then, isn’t it?” Greenleigh asked. “Does anybody even know if the pappy’s blood runs true? I’ll give you fifty. That’s my final offer.”
Sutton laughed. “Suit yourself. My price is one hundred dollars. Take it or leave it.” An hour ago, he’d have grabbed the fifty and been glad of it—until the poker game left him flush. His luck had been on a tear tonight, netting him a winter’s wages plus a five-hundred-dollar horse. Tonight he was top rooster on the dung heap.
He knew the refusal didn’t sit well with Greenleigh. What the cattleman admired in a man from on his side of the valley didn’t seem quite as admirable when found in a man from the other. Nothing, Sutton decided, for him to lose sleep over. He felt no regret when Greenleigh went his own way from the livery. The man irritated him.
Sutton hammered on the stable’s side-door until an old duffer wearing canvas jeans over a once-white union suit, and a battered hat over scraggly gray hair, pushed the board and batten slab open in his face. The man was barefoot.
“What?” the duffer said, gruff as a troll. The other thing about him was the short-barreled over/under scattergun in his hand and the pugnacious scowl on his face.
“Got a couple customers for you,” Micah said, unheeding of the scattergun. “Want to board my horses overnight. I don’t suppose you have a spare stall?”
“Well, you’d suppose wrong. I do.” The duffer leaned around the flapping door he was holding open against the wind and peered up into Micah’s face. “Believe I know that voice. Is that you, Micah Sutton?”
Sutton grinned and bent forward. “Biscuit Martin? I heard a year or so ago that you’d died.”
“I been accused of smelling that way.” The duffer found a lantern hanging on a peg beside him and lit it with a lucifer scratched over the rough edge of his thumbnail. “I’ll let you and the horses in through the big door,” he said, and let the little one slam the in Micah’s face.
The bay blinked at the sharp noise, but neither stampeded nor threw a tizzy. Micah observed the behavior with as much pride as if he’d schooled the critter himself. He thought King might make a good gun horse, not likely to shy at the sound of a shot from on top his back.
“Nasty wind coming off the mountain tonight,” Biscuit said, reappearing and thrusting open the right-hand door, guarding it from banging closed. He’d donned his boots before coming outside.
“That it is,” Micah agreed. “Winter’ll be coming early and staying late this year, unless I miss my guess.” He led his horses in, letting them stand in the center aisle while Biscuit latched the doors.
“Heard you finally got your own place. Guess all that scrimping and saving and being a regular cheapjack paid off.” Biscuit came up beside the bay and held the lantern high. Taking a closer look at the stud, he exclaimed, “By damn! Must have. Is this Mrs. Pruett’s horse Dandy? Sure looks like him.”
“Dandy.” Micah remembered the name as Biscuit called it to mind. It was the name he wanted to watch for on the stud’s papers, soon as he had a chance to look them over. “You’re right, Biscuit. He’s a dead ringer. But Dandy was already turned twelve or so, as I recall, three years back when Fel took his mare to him. This is one of his get—I believe,” he added, since he hadn’t verified the truth of that yet.
Biscuit hooked his lantern on a wall-peg before he limped a circle all the way around the stud. The hostler’s gimpy leg, Micah recalled, stemmed from a badly healed break,.
The wrangler clicked his tongue. “Reckon you’re coming up in the world, then. Starting the ranch out right with the best stock. You marry money, or strike it rich?”
Micah whooped. “Me married? Hell, even if any woman’d have me, I’m too young.”
Biscuit grinned his agreement. “Some folks never get old enough. Where’d you get him? Never figured a ne’er-do-well like you’d ever have more than a shoestring outfit.”
Sutton let a broad smile chase over his own face. It was unnecessary to hide his elation from his old friend. Biscuit, of all people, would understand. “Ne’er-do-well? Shoestring? Awful harsh, ain’t you?”
“Guess so.” Biscuit deliberated upon Sutton with squinted eyes. “But where did you get him? And how’d you raise the money? Didn’t steal him, did you?”
This question caused Micah some affront, his brows lowering as he scowled at the old man. “Steal him? What do you think I am? I won him in a poker game.”
“Poker game!” Biscuit squawked. “The hell you say. You’re funnin’ me, ain’t you?”
“Swear to God. An hour ago, over at the Old Dominion. Got his papers right here in my pocket. Got several witnesses for proof, should anyone dispute my word.”
“If that don’t beat all. I never knowed anybody so consarned lucky in my entire days. One of Dandy’s get. Imagine that.”
Biscuit made another sashay around the stud, slapping the gray’s rump to move him aside. “Thought I knew most of the horses and riders around here, but I ain’t never seen this lad before. Believe me, I’d remember him. Wonder where he come from, Sutton? And who in hell ‘ud be stupid enough to wager him in a poker game?” Without giving Micah the chance to reply, he snatched the stud’s reins out of the other man’s hands. “Come on. Got an empty double stall down at the back. We can put them both in there. It’s late. You have them out early, before Gill gets here, and I’ll charge for just the one.”
Micah let Biscuit toss a flake of good grass hay into the manager in front of the horses, and add half a tin scoop of grain to the mix. King nosed into the feed like he was hungry and hadn’t been fed in a week. Now Sutton had the horse in better light, he saw the animal’s ribs showed sharper than he liked in an animal heading into the winter. He rested his arms on top the stall gate and watched the stud eat.
“Biscuit,” he said, “do you remember when we took Fel’s mare over to Mrs. Pruett’s three years ago?”
“Course I do. I ain’t so old I’ve lost my memory—mostly.” Biscuit tossed the scoop back into the grain sack and came to lean on the rail beside Micah. “How else do you think I know about Dandy?”
Micah shrugged. “You remember a girl? A young girl? I think Mrs. Pruett introduced her as her granddaughter. Fel was the only one the girl spoke to.”
“I remember. Surprised you do, though.” Biscuit winked. “She was a mite young for you to give her any nevermind. Hoity-toity little miss, as I recall. Not much like her grandma. Full of herself going off to some eastern school.”
“That’s the one. Seemed to me she’d as soon wiped her hand-tooled boots on my pants as say how-do. Wouldn’t even look a poor boy like me in the eye. That’s how come I never forgot her.”
“Had taffy-colored hair and dark eyes,” Biscuit reminisced. “Pretty little gal. I can’t think of her name.”
“Me neither.”
They fell silent, watching the horses, until after a while Micah said, “I believe I just met her again.”
“You mean she’s the one lost the horse? In a poker game at the Old Dominion?”
It was a lie Biscuit told on himself about getting old and losing his memory. He hadn’t lost any quickness of thought that Micah could tell.
“Yep.”
“What in hell was she doing in a dive like the Dominion? Mrs. Pruett’s granddaughter?” Biscuit’s eyes bulged with outrage. “What kind of a hand did you have, anyhow? Royal flush?”
“Three of a kind.”
Biscuit gaped at him. “Now you’re funnin’ me, sure. What did she have?”
“Two pair.”
“Nah! She’d bet a horse like the stud on two pair? Is she crazy or just stupid? Hand like that ain’t worth squat.”
“I know. Sad doings, ain’t it?” But Micah grinned, telling himself it wasn’t his fault the girl had lost. He hadn’t made her sit in on a card game that was over her head and he was damned if he’d feel any blame for her bad luck.
There was a hair more compassion in Biscuit Martin. Could be his heart had softened over the years. “She must be hard up, Micah. To wager the horse, then lose him. A girl like that, her back must be right against the wall. Her grandma died, didn’t she?”
“So I heard.” Micah sensed a rebuke, and even admitted he had some of it coming if he put his sense of insult away. A man had no use in holding to old grudges, especially over a matter as small as a thoughtless girl’s snub.
“You suppose Gill’d mind if I slept here with the horses?” Micah decided a change of subject was in order. “I want to keep an eye on my gear. No sense in tempting robbers or horse thieves by walking out alone. I won a goodly sum tonight, along with the horse, and there was one who raised my hackles.” No need to name names.
Biscuit shrugged. “Just be out early. And Sutton, if you hear anyone, it’ll be me or the barn cats. Don’t go shooting either of us by mistake.”
Chapter 3
The low sound of men talking brought Caroline awake. She lay curled in a tight ball and, no matter how hard she tried, couldn’t help overhearing Sutton and the wrangler. What did they know about how she felt? Exactly zero, that’s what. Gritting her teeth, she allowed anger to stoke a fire in her blood. Getting mad helped fight the cold seeping into the barn. It was hard, remaining motionless so the straw wouldn’t rustle and reveal her hiding place. Her jaw hinges ached with the tension in her muscles.
By falling into an exhausted sleep she’d finally managed to forget, for however a brief time, both her empty stomach and the rest of this awful day. Bad enough then, to be awakened by the cowboy pounding on the livery stable door, demanding to be let in. More humiliating, King was enjoying a well-deserved meal she hadn’t been able to provide.
Stupid, Caroline fumed, turning Biscuit’s assessment of her intelligence over in her mind. Yes. She had been stupid, but she didn’t know as she appreciated a rundown old reprobate like Biscuit Martin pointing out the fact. Her lack of brains had nothing to do with him. And her stupidity might actually be counted an asset when she went to apply for work in the Old Dominion’s upper rooms tomorrow.
She shivered, her straw nest whispering with the motion. Who would be her first customer? An old man? A fat man? A cruel man with cold hands and snarling lips? Or maybe a kid, out for the first time, so he and she together could learn how the job went.
It was when Micah Sutton brought up having seen her before that anger began to build and her mind started churning. He said she’d been snooty to him once upon a time. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember any such meeting. Not that he would care, but she had always been painfully shy around strangers, and in trying to counteract this tendency, Gran had forced her to meet every visitor who came to the ranch. Rich or poor. High or low. It didn’t matter since every new person meant another ordeal. Older men had been the best of the bunch. Meeting young men had been the worst. Sutton had fallen into that category.
Going east for her schooling had been horrible, with her in a panic at every new experience. The east had pretty much lived up—or down—to her expectations, too. The other students took great pleasure in ribbing the western girl over her country ways and generally made her life a constant hell. Her relief when she was called home at the end of the second year was short-lived. The recall brought a whole new set of problems with Gran abruptly dying, her mind gone. Caroline had been eighteen then. Now she was twenty. Maybe not as shy. But just as stupid, just as angry.
That neither of the men remembered her name came as the final straw. Coupled together with Mr. Micah Sutton right out saying there was one who raised his hackles. One who he thought might try to steal the horse. How dare he make such a judgment when he didn’t even know her? The only reason she’d put the horse’s papers on the table was because she believed almost anyone must be in a better position than she to take care of him. Why would she want to steal him back?
No. Losing King didn’t make her stupid. Losing King only meant she’d come to the end of the line. The gamble she might win enough to keep him hadn’t paid off for her. But it had for Sutton.
The men finally had enough of admiring King, and went back to the old coot’s sleeping quarters. Sutton carried his saddle and gear with him, probably not trusting it out of his sight.
“You can bunk in the tack room with me. There’s a spare cot where you can spread your blanket.” Biscuit held the lantern high as they passed the stall Caroline had co-opted as her bedchamber. She closed her eyes for fear the light might reflect off the whites, although she refrained from making any other movement they might catch.
“You’re not going to snore, are you?” Sutton asked in a bantering tone. “As I remember, you’re like to raise the roof at times.”
“Me?” Biscuit sounded incredulous. “Why that’s a damn lie. I never snore.”
No. And the wind never blows. Caroline almost felt called upon to refute his claim out loud since a little earlier she’d had a notion to strangle the old bugger where he slept. She restrained herself, knowing one peep from her mouth would bring the men back. Whereupon Biscuit would likely turn her over to the sheriff for trespass. And since she had no means of support, the lawman was sure to run her out of town as a vagrant before you could say, “Saturday night.”
Means of support? Hah! She had nothing, period. Just the promise of becoming a whore. She tried to ignore the strangling tightness wrapped around her chest.
The big livery barn sheltered around twenty animals on this night, enough of them to bring the indoor temperature up a few degrees. The horse’s damp waste filled the cold air with the stench of ammonia, stinging in her nose. Thoroughly awake, too cold and hungry, too angry and afraid of the future to sleep, Caroline stood up. She started when the barn cat, perched on the two-by-four crosspiece between stanchions, chirped at her. “Shh,” she breathed at it. The cat commenced purring.
Up near the doors, the men’s voices murmured. The old man hooted with laughter once, the cowboy giving a low chuckle.
What were they talking about, that they found so dang funny? Caroline felt the scowl on her face like a pinch around her heart. Men always nattered on about being alone and liking it, without the need of companions, friends or family. And yet, it was always men you’d find jawing with one another and riding miles out of their way to deliver some trumped-up bit of news. Or they’d come to town of a Saturday night and spend hours in a grimy saloon, drinking whiskey and playing cards and laughing at the loser’s misfortune. If they went upstairs with a woman, five minutes later they were back at the poker table or the bar, scratching at their crotches and resuming the game or their drinking where they’d left off. What did they care for the women who served them? Nothing. Nothing more than for the last meal they’d eaten, or the next, when they knew hunger again.
Glory! She just couldn’t keep that out of her mind.
Her fate. Poor Caroline Pruitt, with no one left who cared for her. She shuddered in dread and fear.
Taking care not to fall over a metal bucket and the pitchfork Biscuit had left propped against a heavy support post, Caroline stealthily eased into the aisle, glancing toward the corner cubbyhole where lantern light still showed beneath the door, then crept over to the stall where King and the gray were dim shapes in the darkened stable. So Micah Sutton thought she might try stealing King back, did he?
Sutton’s gray gelding stirred, and sensing her familiar presence, the bay lifted his head from the manger. He nickered, a small brr of his lips.
Dear lord, she couldn’t bear to let him go.
Excitement roiled inside her. An idea formed, taking hold of her imagination. Why should she let him go? Since Sutton half-expected some such deviltry anyway, why not prove him right? Now was a good time. King had rested for several hours; he’d had a good bait of feed. Not too much and not too little. Caroline had to concede the cowboy knew how to care for a horse.
Her plans for the next day went by the wayside.
It would serve Sutton right if she actually did spirit the stud out from under his nose. He already had all of her money. What next? With her luck, he’d be her first customer in her new career, an unbearable humiliation. Well, if she tightened her belt another notch, perhaps she could delay the inevitable a few more days.
Without pausing to think, Caroline yanked at the stall gate. The bottom slat dragged in the dirt, crushing straw and gravel against the hard-packed ground. The gate grated on top of the debris beneath it with a noise like a coffee grinder. Caroline froze.
“What was that?” she heard Sutton say, and though he didn’t speak loudly, his words echoed in the livery’s hollow spaces. “Did you hear a noise?”
“It’s nuthin’,” Biscuit replied. “The wind taking off another shingle. Most likely it’s the barn settling. Or the cat slinking around. You’re powerful jumpy, Micah, for a man who has providence smiling down on him.” The old man’s mumble sounded sleepy.
“That ain’t providence, Biscuit. That’s using my head and playing a smart game. Helps if a man knows when he can take a few chances—and when he’d best not.”
Biscuit muttered a reply Caroline didn’t catch, seeing she was so busy cussing Sutton as a mountain-size stack of horse manure—or something like. But she heard Biscuit’s next words, and then Sutton’s, too.
“What happened to the girl, Micah, after she lost the stud and walked off? Where did she go?”
Sutton paused. “I don’t know. I didn’t watch where she headed after the game. Hell! I ain’t no mother’s helper. And I’m not responsible for keeping her from making dumb mistakes, either. Let her go find some of her rich friends. They can look out for her.”
Mother’s helper! Rich friends! She could almost see him lifting his shoulders in blithe unconcern. This incensed Caroline into jerking on the gate she’d been holding motionless and upright, until with a loud scraping racket, it jumped over an impeding lump of soil and popped open.
Almost immediately Biscuit’s door opened and Sutton’s head poked around the corner. His head cocked, listening, as he stared off up the dark aisle in her direction. Caroline froze, solid and still as a cast statue. Then, with a quick dart of her hand, she swept the cat from the crosspiece he was lying on, chasing him into the faint beam of light.
“Nothing but a cat after a mouse,” Sutton said, his tone disgusted.
“Told you.” Biscuit’s bunk groaned as he rolled over. Caroline could tell he had his face to the wall by the way his voice came out muffled. “Now lay the hell down and go to sleep before I’m sorry I said you could stay. Daybreak’s getting closer by the minute and this old man has to roll out before the chickens.”
Sutton retreated inside Biscuit’s quarters, but this time, to Caroline’s dismay, he made sure the door didn’t close all the way. Cat or no cat, his innate sense of caution had been ignited and he was keeping his ears alert for any suspicious sound. He must have been worried about being robbed, she thought, a wry smile twitching her lips. And wouldn’t he just have a hissy fit if he ever guessed he’d shut himself inside the building along with the thief?
Nonetheless, it occurred to her that if she were to stand immobile beside King’s stall for the rest of the night, she’d never manage to saddle the horse and spirit him outside the barn without Sutton catching her. And although she considered gunning Sutton down with her father’s pistol, that didn’t fit her sense of rightness. She guessed she didn’t want to outright kill him—or couldn’t. He hadn’t cheated at cards, or even done anything strictly wrong. He’d played what he was dealt from the same deck as she. Only, in her opinion, he showed entirely too much satisfaction when he won. The blatant satisfaction is what galled her most. That, and the slow, almost amused way he’d stolen her victory after she already had her hands on the money.
A soft moan, quickly stifled on the back of her closed fist, escaped her choked throat. Damn him! She remembered how the corners of his hazel eyes had crinkled at her, as if he expected congratulations on his win. Damn him, and damn her for a fool.
She waited, standing rigid by the stall gate, and had a sense of Sutton lying sleepless and full of doubt in the unnatural quiet, as if he expected to be attacked. After a while she began, inch by slow inch, gingerly edging the gate closed again. She kept thinking Sutton was going to leap out of the dark and catch her, and she found herself turning and listening after each tiny increment of motion.
This wasn’t going to work, she decided, her excitement ebbing. She realized that Sutton, being as stubborn as a doggone Missouri mule, wasn’t about to do more than doze. He’d let no one get past him, not even the barn cat on tippy-toe feet, let alone one weary, hungry and desperate horse thief.
Trouble is, she wasn’t up to throwing her saddle on top of King and bolting out of here on the horse. Either with or without Sutton hearing. And if he did catch her, he’d be over her like summer lightning among storm clouds.
What Caroline really wanted was to flop down on a cushion of straw and cry like a baby. She had no way to hide from Sutton. The wind still howled outside, screaming around the corner of the livery and blowing through every fissure in the sun-cracked siding—and there were plenty such gaps. Feeling its chill, she shivered. She’d run out of alternatives.
Anyway, she reminded herself, she needed King’s papers, though how she was to go about getting them was a bigger challenge than simply recovering the horse. But she had to have them. They were the only legal proof of her ownership. Under the law, whoever held the papers, owned the horse. And right now, those papers resided in Micah Sutton’s back pocket. What she needed to do was devise a better plan than anything she’d come up with so far. A plan barring only murder, and if necessary, maybe not even that.
Life surely did hold some ironies, she thought. Imagine. The heiress to what had been the best horse ranch in Washington, with her survival options brought down to becoming either a whore or a horse thief, a hungry horse thief.
***
Micah pulled his head off his own right shoulder where it had fallen, thinking his neck must be broken. Groaning, he opened his eyes.
“About time you woke up.” Biscuit bent down, joints creaking, and waved a tin cup of strong boiled coffee under Micah’s nose. “What’s the matter? Nightlife in these parts too much for you? Why, I remember the days when me and the other boys ‘ud work all day Saturday, ride twenty miles into town to drink and dance with girls all night, then ride twenty miles back to the ranch and work all day.”
“Bull,” said Micah. “You never did.”
“The hell you say.” Biscuit said, looking offended. “Did too.”
Micah waggled his head and massaged his neck with both hands. “It was twenty-five miles, the last time you told the story.”
“Twenty—twenty-five. Exact count don’t make no matter.” Biscuit thrust the coffee at Micah and stomped over to a small, round-bellied stove with barely enough room on the cast-iron top to wedge a coffee pot and frying pan close together. A couple of thick slabs of ham sizzled in the frying pan; a loaf of store-bought bread lay on a shelf, waiting to be sliced.
Micah sniffed, his stomach rumbling and shaking. “Smells like good ham.”
“One advantage to a few farmers settling around and about. They surely do improve the quality of victuals a feller can buy. Beats beans and biscuits three time a day, I can tell you.” Biscuit expertly flipped the ham onto its other side. The rim of white fat was turning a crisp, golden brown. “Did you catch him?”
“What? Catch who?”
“Whoever kept you up all night.”
Micah kept his eyes fixed on the ham as if he were afraid it might run away, and swallowed half the coffee at one extended gulp. “Go ahead. Laugh. You know I didn’t catch nobody. But I’ll take oath there was someone here last night, waiting to pounce. And it wasn’t the cat.”
“You’ve got a good imagination, boy. Sense things like a lady at one of them there séance parties.”
Micah lunged to his feet and clamped his battered hat onto his head. “I’ll be damned. Next you’re going to tell me you didn’t even hear when the door slammed open just before sunrise.”
“I heard. It was the wind.” Biscuit forked the ham onto tin plates, and stirred a spoonful of flour into the sputtering grease. “Nothing but the wind. Happened once before you even got here, and happened again after I was already awake. Anyhow, you got up and nosed around. Didn’t see anybody, did you?”
The wrangler held up a jug. “Look here. Cow milk. I’m making gravy.” He poured the milk into the frying pan where it turned a soft tan color and thickened as it mixed with the flour and grease. A sprinkle of black pepper completed the cooking.
“Be good on biscuits,” Micah said, his mouth watering. Biscuit had come by his name due to a light hand with baking.
“It’ll be good on this bread.”
“You know I didn’t catch a thief.” Micah accepted a fully laden plate, harkening back to his most pressing concern while shoveling food into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for a week. “I still think there was one hanging around.”
But it wasn’t until Micah was saddling the bay, preparing to lead his gray on the ride home, that Biscuit came around to his way of thinking.
“I’ll be double-damned,” he heard Biscuit growl, low and bear-like.
Micah stuck his head around the livery’s rear door, which Biscuit had just opened up for the day, and looked over to where the old wrangler stood scratching his head. “What bit you?” he asked, already guessing.
Biscuit stomped one foot like he was squashing bugs, his lower lip thrust-out in imitation of a petulant boy. “We’re missing a horse.”
Micah, fighting a grin, didn’t say a word.
Chapter 4
It had been an hour before daybreak when Caroline tiptoed past the half-open door of Biscuit’s cubby. She chanced a peek inside. He was already up and doing, bent over the stove stuffing chunks of firewood into its belly, his attention centered on putting match to kindling. A lantern, its wick turned low, illuminated the room in the absence of any natural light. No window.