The Honour-Bound Gambler

Chapter Two

As typically happened at parties, Violet found herself at the spinsters’ table in short order. She’d already made the rounds of the gala’s volunteer helpers, offering her assistance wherever it was needed. She’d sat in with a fiddle for one of the musicians’ simpler songs at the horn player’s urgings. She’d also earned hearty laughs among the members of the ladies’ auxiliary club with her anecdotes about baking apple-spice jumbles as her contribution to the Grand Fair bake sale. Now she was earnestly engaged in boosting the spirits of her fellow wallflowers. She simply couldn’t stand seeing anyone unhappy.

“Even if we don’t do any dancing tonight,” Violet was telling the women nearest her, “that doesn’t mean we have to abandon the notion of fun altogether! The evening is still young. Besides, I’m having a wonderful time talking with you!”

The town’s most outspoken widow, Mrs. Sunley, snorted over her glass of mescal. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Benson. But I’d prefer to trot around in the arms of a handsome young buck.”

Everyone tittered. Mrs. Sunley typically spoke her mind, sometimes to the point of impropriety. Privately, Violet admired her for it—and for her enviable sense of independence, too. Most likely, her own future would be similar to Mrs. Sunley’s, Violet knew—save the aforesaid marriage to begin it, of course.

“That would be delightful, Mrs. Sunley,” Violet agreed, “if there were any handsome new ‘young bucks’ here in town.”

“Oh! But there is a handsome new man in town!” one of the wallflowers said. “We were talking about him earlier!”

At that, everyone launched into a spirited dissertation of the mystery man’s rugged good looks, sophisticated suit and rakish air of je ne sais quoi. One woman described his smile (“It made me dizzy! I swear it did!”); another rhapsodized over his masculine demeanor (“My brother, Big Horace, looked like a wee girl standing next to him!”); a third waxed lyrical about his elegant manners (“Yes! He bowed to me, just like a gentleman in a Harper’s Weekly story! I almost swooned on the spot!”).

“I think he must be here for the private faro tournament,” one woman confided in hushed tones. “I heard from my Oscar that all the finest sporting men are coming to town to participate.”

Everyone nodded in approbation. Out West, professional gamblers were accorded a great deal of respect, especially when they were winning. Even Jack Murphy, one of Morrow Creek’s most reputable citizens, employed professional sporting men to run the tables at his saloon.

“I’ll bet he’s a big winner!” someone said, still prattling on about the mysterious stranger. “He certainly looked it, with that self-assured air he had. And those eyes!”

The women all sighed with romantic delight. Even curmudgeonly Mrs. Sunley fluttered her fan in a coquettish fashion. The gossip went on, but Violet couldn’t help laughing.

“Gambler or not, no man is that fascinating,” she insisted. “In my experience, men are usually clumsy, smelly, unable to properly choose their own neckties and in dire need of moral rehabilitation—which my father is always happy to provide.”

“You’ve been meeting all the wrong men,” a friend said.

“Or all the right ones,” Mrs. Sunley put in with a knowing grin. “The most interesting men need a little reforming.”

Tactfully, no one mentioned that it didn’t matter which men Violet met. With a few notable and short-term exceptions, most men hadn’t seen her as a potential sweetheart; instead, they’d usually approached her for an introduction to the beautiful Adeline Wilson. Now that Adeline was officially engaged to Clayton Davis, even that role had become obsolete.

As everyone belatedly pondered that dismal realization, silence fell. All the wallflowers exchanged embarrassed glances. Violet studied her still-tapping toes, wishing she didn’t make people feel so awkward. Another friend cleared her throat.

“Speaking of moral rehabilitation,” she said into the uncomfortable silence, evidently hoping to end it quickly, “where could I find your father? I have something to discuss with him. I saw him earlier, but he seems to have disappeared.”

“He has?” Newly concerned, Violet bit her lip. All thoughts of the dazzling, wholly unlikely new mystery man—and her own unpopularity with such men—were forgotten. At an event like this one, chockablock with wheels of fortune, raffle tickets and—undoubtedly—backroom wagering, there was only one place Reverend Benson would likely be found. “Don’t worry. I’ll find him,” she told her friend. “I’ll ask him to speak with you straightaway.”

Then, scarcely waiting for her friend to acknowledge her offer, Violet excused herself from the wallflowers’ circle. She suddenly had a mission more important than consoling her fellow nondancing, non-sought-after companions: finding her father before he did something foolish.

Cade was down almost three hundred dollars when the first of his gambling companions quit. In disgust, the man hurled down his cards. His chair scraped back. “You keep ’em. I’m out.”

The other men at the table protested. Cade did not. After a little conversation, a little gambling and much careful observation, he knew the man’s retreat had been inevitable. Like the grubby farmer and the soft-handed minister who remained at the table, the man had been in over his head. All the same, Cade had the good sense and the good manners to keep his gaze fixed on the baize-covered table, tabulating the money in the kitty.

His unlucky streak had not yet ended. Nothing less than an impressive win would get him invited to the private, high-stakes faro tables where he expected to find Percy Whittier and to make him pay for his sins. With so much at stake, Cade couldn’t relax. He couldn’t quit. He couldn’t fold. He could only focus on the game with the same taut intensity he always employed.

The departing man opened the back room’s door. The lively sounds of the Grand Fair’s music and dancing swept inside. So did the earthy, aromatic scent of Kentucky’s finest tobacco.

Nostrils flaring, Cade looked up.

He knew that blend. Its fragrance was melded with his earliest memories. It was forever tied to loneliness and loss…and to questions he’d never been able to find the answers to.

It was the signature blend smoked by Percy Whittier.

Frozen in place, Cade stared blindly at his cards. Could he be this lucky? He’d believed the rumor had been true. He’d believed Whittier was in Morrow Creek; otherwise, Cade wouldn’t have come there, with or without Simon Blackhouse’s aid. But to find Whittier by chance this way, tonight…

It defied the odds laid in by even the most hopeful gambler. And Cade had never been hopeful.

Hope was for people who fooled themselves into forgetting the truth: that life was short, fickle and cruel. More than anyone, Cade knew better than to put his faith in long odds. Doubtless, he told himself as he went on studying his hand, many men smoked that particular Kentucky blend, not just Whittier.

An instant later, a burst of raucous fiddle music restored his usual sense of purpose. What was he doing just sitting there?

Anyone looking at him would have thought Cade didn’t really want to find Whittier. The notion was daft. He might not be hopeful, Cade reminded himself, but he was determined. He’d made promises to Judah. He intended to keep them or die trying.

“I’m out, too.” Heart pounding, Cade made himself stand. He schooled his face in an impassive expression, needing to hide the damnably naive hopefulness he felt. The answers he needed felt tantalizingly close. “Night, all. Good luck, Reverend.”

Startled, the minister glanced up. He couldn’t have known that Cade had already taken pity on his foolish wagering and slipped him an “improving” card when everyone else had been watching their easily defeated companion leave the game. But Cade knew it. He hoped the minister took the boon and quit, too. Otherwise, the way he’d been wagering, he’d lose for sure.

Cade hadn’t wanted to let that happen. Not because the minister was a holy man; Cade didn’t have much use for preaching. But according to their chin-wagging, the widowed minister had a daughter—as it happened, the same mousy woman who’d tossed away her dance card—and Cade hadn’t wanted the man’s family to pay for his witlessness.

Giving the minister that improving card had meant setting back his own game, Cade knew. But he’d had faith he could regain his edge. The hapless holy man didn’t have the same advantage.

The door creaked. Through the slowly narrowing gap in the doorway, Cade glimpsed swirls of dancers, a wisp of smoke…and the profile of a cigar-smoking man. Was it really Whittier?

Cade couldn’t be certain. In Omaha, he’d spooked Whittier with a too-aggressive pursuit. He’d lost him for weeks. Now Cade had to be smarter. Otherwise, he might ruin his advantage.

As far as he knew, Whittier didn’t know Cade was still in pursuit of him. Cade meant to keep it that way…until he caught up altogether.

“Don’t forget our weekly game at the Lorndorff!” one of the men called from behind him. “We can always use one more man.”

“’Specially a losing man!” Another yokel gambler guffawed.

Too intent to argue with their wrongheaded assessment of his skills, Cade raised his hand in acknowledgment of their invitation. It wasn’t quite the wagering offer he needed, but he reckoned it was a start. From here, word of his ability would travel upward to the elite circuit and eventually—he hoped—garner him an invitation to those sought-after tables.

Decisively, Cade slipped into the giddy fray of the Grand Fair. He was almost close enough, he saw, to identify Whittier for certain. With only a faded tintype and his own hazy memory to go on, it was hard to tell. But the smell of the man’s distinctive tobacco blend tantalized Cade with its nearness.

He needed a plan. The moment he saw the minister’s daughter—no longer burdened with overcoats—determinedly on her way to the back room, Cade hit upon one. This time, he would keep his distance from Whittier until the moment was right. This time, he would be smart. This time, he would win.

In the meantime, he had to get a little closer. So…

“There you are!” Smiling, Cade pulled the woman into his arms, keeping Whittier in sight. “You’re missing our dance!”

“Oh no I’m not!” the woman said. “I’d never miss a dance!”

Then, to Cade’s immense relief and improbable good fortune, the woman allowed him to dance them both into the frolicsome melee…straight toward the spot where Cade had last glimpsed his quarry.

This must be what it felt like to fly, Violet thought as the handsome stranger whirled her around the dance floor. Guided by his strong arms and innate dexterity, she nearly laughed.

This was what she’d been wanting all night.

This… and maybe more.

Enchanted, Violet gazed up into the stranger’s arresting face. Clearly, this was the man who’d had all the town’s wallflowers aflutter. Indeed, as she examined his wavy dark hair, piercing blue eyes and impeccably arrayed features, she did feel a bit dizzy. A bit bedazzled. A bit swoony.

He was…perfect.

He delivered her an abashed smile. “Thank you for letting me sweep you away just now. I’m in your debt, Miss…?”

“Benson. Violet Benson.” Beset by her rapidly galloping heartbeat, Violet sucked down a breath. She executed another turn in the dance. This had to be some sort of mistake, but she’d be jiggered if she’d miss this opportunity to kick up her heels. Politely, she asked, “And you are?”

“Cade Foster. I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Benson.”

Hearing her name on his lips made Violet feel downright light-headed. How did he manage to make her ordinary name sound so extraordinarily intimate? So intriguing? So…wonderful?

On the verge of asking him exactly that question, Violet stopped herself. Instead she blurted, “You’re new in town.”

It was not a smooth entrée to further conversation. But a person would not have guessed as much to look at Cade Foster’s appealing smile—a smile that engaged twin dimples in his cheeks.

“Not anymore.” He tightened his hand on hers, sweeping them both in an elegant arc across the room. “In your company, Miss Benson, I suddenly feel quite welcomed to Morrow Creek.”

Goodness, he was charming. And he was charming her! Awed by the realization, Violet prayed her feet wouldn’t lose all sense of rhythm. She glanced downward. Blessedly, her feet seemed to be keeping up very well…even while the rest of her dithered.

“Well, I have that effect on people,” she confessed. “My friends say I’m a veritable one-woman hospitality committee. Probably owing to all my charity work. You see, I do a great deal of volunteering among the destitute, the sick, the needy—”

“They’re fortunate to have you. As am I, tonight.”

“Oh. Now you’re teasing me.”

“Not at all.” Mr. Foster danced them both near the raffle cage and its attendant cash box. “I’m enjoying you. I think you’re enjoying me, too—at least if your smile is any proof.”

Caught, Violet tried to tamp down her wide, telltale smile. But it was no use. It was simply too delightful to be flirted with this way! Especially by such a dashing man. Also, she couldn’t help noticing that several conversations had quit at the edge of the dance floor. A few dancers had even slowed to gawk. The whole place, it seemed, was fixated on Violet and her gallant dance partner. The sensation was altogether novel.

She, Violet Benson, was the center of attention!

This must be what her friend Adeline experienced every day.

Encouraged by that realization, Violet gazed up at him. “My smile doesn’t prove a thing about my supposed feelings for you, Mr. Foster,” she said in her most coquettish tone. Until now she had only employed that tone in her imagination. It felt much more fun in truth. “I always smile when performing a good deed. It makes me happy to lend a hand to those in need.”

Mr. Foster appeared dumbfounded. “Charity? You’re likening me to a charity case?” He raised his eyebrows. “I assure you, Miss Benson, I do not need help. Not from you or anyone else.”

“Are you sure?” Violet angled her head, studying him. “When you first invited me to dance, I felt sure I detected a certain air of…desperation about you. I know it sounds strange, but—”

He stumbled. For an instant, they both lost the cadence of the dance. Then his hand closed more securely around hers, they both recaptured the necessary steps, and Violet reconsidered.

Undoubtedly, Cade Foster had never been desperate for anything in his life. He seemed the sort of man for whom everything fell into place, lickety-split. Still, during those first few moments, she had definitely felt…something from him.

Something, if not desperate, then very, very needful.

“You move very well, Miss Benson.” Cade Foster presented her with his flawless profile. If he noticed the avid stares and gossipy whispers directed their way, he gave no sign of it. “The men in town must be bereft that you threw away your dance card.”

She gawked at him, all thoughts of his potential desperation forgotten. “You saw that? You saw…me?”

“Of course I did.” Mr. Foster glanced sideways. He frowned. “Why did you do it? Why did you throw away your dance card?”

Still enraptured with the notion that she might move well, as he’d said, Violet felt a shiver race through her. He was the one who moved well—the one who danced with effortless poise. Cade Foster’s skill was to make his partner seem equally adept.

Doubtless he possessed several similar talents…all of which would be scintillating and assured and unlikely to be shared with Violet beyond this night and this dance. Maybe that’s why she let herself fling her usual caution to the wind.

“Why did I throw away my dance card? The answer to that question, Mr. Foster, will cost you another dance.”

He smiled, seeming impressed. “You’re bold. I wouldn’t have expected that from a self-confessed do-gooder.”

“I prefer ‘aid worker.’ And a straight answer.”

Mr. Foster laughed. “And bolder still.” He twirled her as the last flourish of music played. He glanced sideways, then muttered a swearword under his breath. “But I have to refuse.”

“Why?” Violet kept her tone light. “Are you afraid I might save you with a dose of well-placed charity work?”

“No.” Inexplicably, he paled. “I’m beyond redemption.”

His voice sounded fraught. Troubled, Violet dared to touch his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I was being flippant. I didn’t mean—”

“Take this.” As the next dance began, Mr. Foster gave her something: a dance card. Her dance card. “You’ll be needing it.”

Violet boggled at it. How had he come to possess her dance card? “I don’t need it. There was a reason it was empty.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. “Thank you for the dance.”

“We could have another. I still haven’t answered your—”

“Your father is headed to the mescal booth to celebrate his recent win at cards.” Mr. Foster nodded. “I’m guessing you’ll want to intercept him before he gets two fistfuls and a snort.”

Her father? Winning and drinking? But how could Mr. Foster possibly have identified both the Reverend Benson and his worst foibles, all in a single glance? Confused, Violet turned.

It was true, she saw. However unaccountably, Cade Foster had summed up the situation. Papa did appear to have won.

He also appeared to be intent on memorializing his victory at the gambling table by pickling himself in locally brewed liquor. Her father, although devout and bookish by nature, had never refused a whiskey. He considered it a fair restorative.

“Next time I see you, you’ll be overrun with suitors.” With another beguiling smile and a touch of her hand, Cade Foster bowed to Violet. He didn’t seem to realize how preposterous his statement really was. “I’m happy to have danced with you first.”

Violet didn’t have time to elucidate matters to him. Nor did she want to. Cade Foster had enjoyed dancing with her! Why should she spoil that by telling him that she typically spent more time decorating for parties than dancing at them?

“Thank you very much. I’m happy to have danced with you, too!” Eagerly, she nodded. “But now I really must dash!”

Then, with Cade Foster’s enthralling features still dancing in her mind, Violet picked up her skirts and went to do her duty. Her turn at being belle of the ball was over. For her it was back to everyday existence—without the pleasure of a man’s hand in hers to help guide her through…or to share her smiles.

“Papa!” she cried an instant later. “What have you done?”

“Violet, my dear!” Her father embraced her happily. “You’re just who I wanted to see. Look! I won fistfuls of money!”

“Oh, dear.” Nibbling her lip, Violet swept her father’s winnings with a chary look. Probably he would add them to the collection plate on Sunday, but until then there was always the chance he would wager most or all of it. She didn’t approve of gambling, but it seemed to give Papa a happiness he’d lost since the death of her poor mother years ago. “Congratulations!”

“That’s my girl!” He kissed her cheek, then delivered her a quelling frown. “But shouldn’t you be conducting the drawing?”

The drawing. She’d forgotten about the raffle entirely. As organizer of the gala, Violet was responsible for determining the winner and for delivering the money raised to the committee.

“Yes! I was just about to do that.” Reminded of her pressing duties, Violet sighed. Dancing had been so much nicer!

Turning back for one last compelling look, Violet glimpsed Cade Foster striding through the dancers. He was leaving her behind just as abruptly as he’d swept her into the dance.

It was only too bad, Violet thought as she watched him go, that she’d had a taste of flying with him at all. Now she knew, for the first time ever, exactly what she’d been missing in her life.

Strangely enough, it had taken an enigmatic and downright captivating man to show her the truth: she needed to fly. Perhaps recklessly. Perhaps foolishly. But regularly and soon, preferably with a companion by her side. But…how?

Chapter Three

Seated across the table from Cade in his suite at the Lorndorff Hotel, Simon Blackhouse smiled. That’s how Cade knew something significant was afoot. Blackhouse never smiled, not while there were cards in his hand or dice within his reach. Blackhouse took gambling as seriously as he did nothing else.

“What’s the matter with you? Are you drunk?” Cade peered out the hotel suite’s lavishly curtained window. A slice of autumnal blue sky greeted him. “It’s only ten in the morning.”

“I’m not drunk. I’m thinking.”

“Aha. That explains it.” With sham concern, Cade leaned nearer. “You’re new at making an effort with things, so I should probably warn you—thinking, once begun, is hard to stop.”

“Very funny.” Unperturbed, Blackhouse smiled anew at his cards, making Cade feel doubly wary. “I can’t help it if things come easily to me,” his sponsor argued. “It’s in my nature.”

“It’s in your inheritance.” Cade gestured. “New game?”

With a murmur of agreement, Blackhouse rounded up the cards. He dealt. For a while, the only sounds were the ticking of the mantelpiece clock and the shuffling of cards.

At the conclusion of their game, Blackhouse smiled again.

“That’s the fourth game straight you’ve won today.” He studied Cade from over the tops of his losing cards. “You know what this means, don’t you? Your unlucky streak has ended.”

Cade wasn’t so sure. “If I were playing a skilled gambler—”

“You’d still win,” Blackhouse told him, ignoring his genial gibe. “You’re the luckiest son of a bitch I’ve ever known.” With his shirt half buttoned and his suit coat askew, Blackhouse seemed the very picture of privileged, happy-go-lucky young bachelorhood. “Aside from myself, of course. I’m damnably lucky, too.” Appearing characteristically pleased by that, he lit a cheroot. He gazed at Cade through its upward-curling smoke. “What happened? Did you bed a Gypsy who broke the curse?”

“I wish it had been that simple. I would have done that months ago.” It had been almost that long since he’d had a break in his search for Percy Whittier. Last night hadn’t changed much in that regard. Cade had lost sight of Whittier while dancing with Violet Benson. Although he’d tried not to be, he’d been distracted by her—especially by her too-astute claim that he’d appeared desperate. Desperate! “I’m afraid the only woman I’ve been with lately was a naive reformer. She threatened to ‘save’ me.” Cade shuddered at the remembrance. “I can’t stand do-gooders. They remind me of orphan trains and foundling homes.”

“So?” Blackhouse arched his brow. With nimble fingers, he scooped up the playing cards. “I’ve established a few foundling homes myself. They’re not all bad.” As though considering those altruistic efforts—along with the prestigious family name and attendant family fortune that had facilitated them—Blackhouse paused. He shook his head, then shuffled expertly. “A Rom woman would have been wilder,” he alleged, grinning again.