‘I’m here to ruin my reputation, Cade,’ she announced firmly. ‘With you.’

Stunned by that scandalous notion, Cade couldn’t speak.

But Violet didn’t seem to mind.

‘I’m here to make some thrilling memories,’ she went on, ‘and maybe change my future while I’m at it. And we’ve already wasted a great deal of time, so…’ perkily, she smiled ‘… shall we get started?’

AUTHOR NOTE

Thank you for reading THE HONOUR-BOUND GAMBLER! I’m so happy to share this story with you. I always fall in love with all my characters while writing about them, and Cade and Violet were no exception. They quickly found a special place in my heart—as did Tobe, Reverend Benson, Adeline, Judah…and even that mysterious rascal Simon Blackhouse!

If you enjoyed this story (and I hope you did!), please try another book in my Morrow Creek series. It includes MAIL-ORDER GROOM, THE BRIDE RAFFLE, and several others (including some short stories), all set in and around my favourite Old West town.

You can learn about all my books at my website: www.lisaplumley.com. While you’re there you can also download a complete book list, sign up for new-book alerts, read sneak previews of forthcoming books, request special reader freebies, and more. I hope you’ll stop by today!

Also, as always, I’d love to hear from you! You can send an e-mail to lisa@lisaplumley.com, ‘friend’ me on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/pages/LisaPlumley/164790176872702, follow me on Twitter@LisaPlumley, or write to me c/o PO Box 7105, Chandler, AZ 85246-7105, USA.

About the Author

When she found herself living in modern-day Arizona Territory, LISA PLUMLEY decided to take advantage of it—by immersing herself in the state’s fascinating history, visiting ghost towns and historical sites, and finding inspiration in the desert and mountains surrounding her. It didn’t take long before she got busy creating light-hearted romances like this one, featuring strong-willed women, ruggedly intelligent men, and the unexpected situations that bring them together.

When she’s not writing, Lisa loves to spend time with her husband and two children, travelling, hiking, watching classic movies, reading, and defending her trivia-game championship. She enjoys hearing from readers, and invites you to contact her via e-mail at lisa@lisaplumley.com, or visit her website at www.lisaplumley.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE DRIFTER

THE MATCHMAKER* THE SCOUNDREL* THE RASCAL* MARRIAGE AT MORROW CREEK* (part of Halloween Temptations anthology) MAIL-ORDER GROOM* THE BRIDE RAFFLE* SOMETHING BORROWED, SOMETHING TRUE (part of Weddings Under a Western Sky anthology) *Morrow Creek mini-series

And in Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBooks:

WANTON IN THE WEST

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

The Honour-Bound Gambler
Lisa Plumley

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To John, with all my love,

now and forever.

Chapter One

Morrow Creek, northern Arizona Territory October 1884

“A gambler is nothing but a man who makes his living out of hope.”

—William Bolitho

From the moment he saw the boy, dirty faced and shabbily dressed, Cade Foster knew he was in trouble. Darting a glance at the middling horse, wagon and foot traffic surrounding him in the territorial backwater he’d arrived at this afternoon, Cade frowned. He stepped sideways, intent on making a detour.

The little sharper moved in the same direction. “Wanna try your luck, mister? I got me a nickel says I’m luckier than you.”

Unhappily distracted, Cade glanced down at the coin the boy brandished. It looked cleaner than all the rest of the urchin combined. From his grimy fingernails to his shabby shirt, the boy looked powerfully worse for wear. Unfortunately, he also looked a little like Judah. Maybe that’s why Cade stopped.

The boy grinned, revealing a smile that jabbed at Cade’s heart like a sterling-silver knuckle-duster. “Ain’t nothing finer than a fast game of craps, sir.” The boy, probably twelve years of age or a little more, extracted a pair of dice from his trouser pocket. With élan he shook them in his scrawny fist. “How ’bout we toss ’em over yonder, where it’s quiet?”

He nodded toward the nearest alleyway. Hesitating, Cade squinted up the main street toward the two-story brick house that was his destination. All Morrow Creek’s movers and shakers were expected to be at the benefit being held there tonight, during which the Territorial Benevolent Association Grand Fair would raise funds for a new public lending library.

“You got yer roulette, el Sapo, rondo, rouge et noir, faro, and vingt-et-un—” the boy rattled off the names of those popular games of chance the way most youngsters recited their ABCs “—but for a fast win and real excitement nothin’ beats craps, sir.”

Transferring his gaze to the child again, Cade noted the boy’s hollow cheeks and the dark smudges below his eyes. He saw the way the pint-size “sporting man” hunched his skinny shoulders against the autumn chill. He assessed the boy’s nimble movements even as he listened to more of the imp’s patter.

“If you roll those bones as ably as you talk,” Cade interrupted, “I’d be a fool to strike a wager with you.”

“You’d be a fool not to, you mean. It’s just a nickel.”

To a boy like that, a nickel was the difference between eating and going to bed hungry. Cade knew that more than most.

He also knew, with another proficient glance, that the dice the youngster jiggled were likely a pair of dispatchers—so named because they effectively “dispatched” their intended targets: suckers. Like all gambling men, Cade recognized the tools of a cheat. There was no other way to assure himself a square game.

Not that he ever expected to actually get one. Cade reckoned that every game he went up against was crooked one way or another. But if he ever wanted to find Whittier, he had to follow the gambling circuit. Tonight, at least a few of its members would be scouting for prospects—and showing off—at the Grand Fair. Once Cade made his way up the street to that big brick house, he’d have to do his best to impress them.

Winning was the only way to progress up the circuit—to make it to the high-stakes tables where men like Whittier wagered.

Not that throwing dice with this youngster would help Cade do that. He should have tried harder to go around him—regardless of the boy’s resemblance to Judah. Now it was too late.

When Cade glanced up again, wondering if he could sidestep the kid without taking too hard a punch to his conscience, the boy was shrewdly studying his watch chain. Doubtless he was envisioning the expensive gold Jürgensen timepiece—a particular favorite of professional gambling men—that dangled at its tail…and wondering if he could win it.

Seeing no other choice, Cade nodded. He ambled to the alleyway with the boy leading the way. They set their wager.

“I’m in a hurry.” Cade nodded. “Go on and roll.”

Smartly, the boy refused. “Let me see your nickel first.”

Obligingly, Cade produced a coin. On the verge of throwing it in their makeshift kitty, he frowned. “Tell you what,” he said in a tone of studied carelessness. “A nickel’s not much of a bet. I’ll put up my coat in this bargain, too.” He was happy to forfeit the damn thing if it would keep this urchin warm for the coming wintertime. That was the least his problematic conscience demanded. “Just to keep things interesting.”

“Yeah?” The boy jabbed up his chin. His eyes gleamed with wanting Cade’s warm coat, but his decidedly unchildlike sense of skepticism demanded more. “What do you want of mine, then?”

Cade thought about it. “I want those fine dice of yours.”

Reluctantly, the scamp examined his pair of clinkers. He’d probably been earning all the sustenance he had with them. He appeared disinclined to part with them. But the kid would be better off without those cheaters in his hands. They’d only get him in trouble. Nobody was likely to keep the boy from earning some much-needed money with fast gambling—and truthfully, Cade wasn’t inclined to try—but at least the practice could be made safer. With a keener pair of loaded or expertly shaved dice—like the pair Cade kept ready in his coat pocket, for instance—the boy’s subterfuge would be less detectable. All Cade had to do was slip them to the little sharper, easy as pie.

If the morals of helping a child to cheat were supposed to have bothered him, Cade guessed he was past repentance. Because this boy reminded him of his brother—of those hellacious orphan trains the two of them had been shoved onto and the hopes they’d had crushed for all those long-ago months—and he’d be damned if he’d let one small boy shiver for the sake of his own need for a heavenly reward.

Besides, the boy’s future marks weren’t any concern of Cade’s. Any man who would set out to purposely bilk a down-on-his-luck child at gambling deserved to lose a few coins. Cade wasn’t that man. But the boy didn’t know that and never would.

At the child’s continuing reluctance to strike a weightier wager, Cade heaved a sigh. “No deal? Fine. I’m late already.”

“Oh? You goin’ to Miss Benson’s gala benefit?”

“You stalling for time? It’s an easy bet. Yes or no?”

The boy toed the dirt. He eyed Cade’s coat. “Add in that nice watch of yours too, an’ you got yourself a good wager.”

Against all reason, Cade admired the boy’s pluck. “I won this watch in the biggest game of my life. It’s sentimental.”

“You sayin’ no? ’Cause I ain’t familiar with sentiment.”

If Cade had been a softer man, that admission would have broken his heart. As it was, he only sobered his expression, then shook his head. “You can’t have my watch.”

The boy shrugged. Appearing resigned, he shook his fistful of rigged dice. With elaborate showmanship, he yelled, “Hold on to yer britches then, sir! Here comes the first roll, gents!”

Too late, Cade realized they’d drawn a clump of onlookers. In the shadows cast by the setting sun, four strangers watched as the dice spewed from the boy’s hand, rolled on the ground, bounced theatrically from the nearest lumber wall, then stopped.

A five-spot and a one-spot winked up. Another roll, then.

Cannily, the boy let himself lose the first several throws. All the while, he kept up an animated pitch—a talk meant to reel in Cade and keep him wagering even after he began losing. Such tactics were all part of the game—a prelude to the inevitable swindle after which the boy would walk away victorious.

If a grown man had tried such tactics on Cade, he wouldn’t have been so patient. There was a reason he carried a derringer, two wicked blades and a surfeit of suspicion wherever he went.

As the alleyway grew darker and the dice rolled on, side bets sprung up among the spectators. Money rapidly changed hands; good-natured insults were traded along with the wagers. Cade wasn’t surprised. In the West, gambling was as common as breathing. After all, what was mining if not wagering that you’d find more gold than dirt in the nearby hills? Compared with wielding a pickax, pitching dice was hardly backbreaking.

As the dice rolled again, a sharp breeze whirled into the alleyway. The boy shivered. So did Cade. He’d upped the ante on their wager several times already. Now it was time to end this.

“My turn.” Cade accepted the dice. Deftly, he switched them for the pair from his coat pocket. He rolled. Then he swore.

Exactly as he’d planned, he’d lost everything.

“I won! I won!” the kid crowed. “I get your coat, mister!”

The boy’s eyes shone up at him. In that moment, Cade didn’t mind that he’d made himself late for the Grand Fair. Then the urchin deliberately schooled his expression into his previous toughness, Cade remembered that he was a hard-nosed gambler who was in town only long enough to find the man he’d hunted through several states and territories…and the world righted itself.

“Tough break,” a bystander commiserated. “You was just coming back, mister. You ain’t got no kind of luck, do you?”

At that, Cade grinned, pinned by an unexpected sense of irony. This time, with the boy, he’d lost on purpose. But he hadn’t enjoyed his usual run of good luck lately—that was true.

In fact, if his current unlucky streak continued, Cade didn’t know what he’d do. He was so close to finagling a way into the high-stakes gambling circuit he’d been chasing. He desperately needed to keep up with that league of professionals.

It was the only way to find Whittier. He ran with that circuit; if not for his vaunted appearances at the table, he might as well have been a ghost. The minute rumors had flown that he’d been spotted here, in Morrow Creek, Cade had pulled foot for the town, too, hoping to catch up with him.

Besides, Cade had already tried everything else he could think of to track the man. His more legitimate search methods had turned up nothing.

“Well, it’s like I always say,” Cade told the bystanders, “if you must play, decide upon three things at the start—the rules of the game, the stakes…and the quitting time.” As he spoke, he slipped off his overcoat. He dropped it, covertly divested of all the items he wanted to keep, on the boy’s shoulders. “Now it’s quitting time.”

“What? You ain’t even gonna try to win your money back?”

“Not tonight.” Cade turned away. Behind him, he heard two awestruck whistles and several gruff, gossipy murmurs. Whoever said women were the only ones with flapping jaws was dead wrong.

“Hell! I’d say we got ourselves a new sporting man in town, boys!” one of the local men said with a chortle. “And he’s droppin’ money like he’s got holes in his pockets, too.”

The urchin ignored the chattering men. He chased down Cade, the oversize coat trailing on the ground behind him, then tugged at his suit sleeve. “Hey, mister! I know I won and all, but…I don’t reckon you meant to leave this behind. I found it in your coat pocket.”

He held up a wad of greenbacks, fastened with an ivory clip, which Cade had won off a cotton merchant down South.

Cade had meant to leave that money with the ragamuffin. He didn’t have much use for his winnings—aside from their ability to stake his reputation, admit him into the elite high rollers’ circle and eventually get him invited into their next private faro tournament. If he was lucky, that’s where he’d find Whittier. Cade had already skimmed off a sufficient quantity of cash for his own incidentals. He had a fair bankroll set aside at his hotel. And there was always his benefactor, Simon Blackhouse, to rely on if he needed more funding, too.

But what concerned Cade now wasn’t his own well-being. Because behind the boy, out of sight of his stupefied gaze, all those onlookers stared at Cade’s carelessly lost money with hungry eyes. Surely they wouldn’t actually steal from a child?

Cade didn’t know. All he knew was that some things—not many, in his experience, but some—weren’t wagering material.

“You show me how to get to the Territorial Benevolent Association Grand Fair,” Cade said, “and you can keep it all.”

Wide-eyed, the boy nodded. Quick as a wink, he shoved the wad of cash down his pants for safekeeping. “For this much scratch I’ll take you there myself! But I ain’t stayin’. I done heard of kids bein’ lured in by Miss Benson and then they ain’t never seen again! I don’t want no reformer gettin’ ahold of me.”

Cade only shrugged. “I don’t care much for those do-gooder types myself.” He started walking, with the boy eagerly dogging his every booted step. Something about the urchin’s sudden devotion bothered him, but Cade shrugged that off, too. “Give me a bottle of mescal, a pretty girl, a fair hand and a chance to square off against Lady Luck, and I don’t need much else.”

The boy skipped ahead, belatedly taking the lead as he’d agreed to do. He pointed to their destination. “The fair’s up yonder at that ole’ brick house.” He eyed Cade. “You fixin’ to steal all the raffle money for the new library or somethin’?”

“Nope. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I’ve never had to, and I’m not starting now.” Speaking in all honesty, Cade leveled his gaze on the house. Morrow Creek residents came and went in all their meager territorial finery. Music and lights spilled from inside, foretelling exactly the frolic he expected. “I’m here for something even better than raffle money.”

The boy scoffed. “Nothing’s better than money.”

“At least one thing is,” Cade disagreed.

At that, the boy made a disgusted face. “What? Love?”

Cade laughed. “Nope. Not love.”

He wasn’t even sure what love was. He cared for Judah; that was true. Everyone else he kept at arm’s length for good reason.

“If it ain’t money, and it ain’t love, then what is it you’re after?” the child demanded to know.

“Answers,” Cade told him. “I want answers.”

Then, for the fourth time in as many months, he headed toward the celebration he hoped might change his life…all over again.

Standing at the edge of the boisterous Territorial Benevolent Association Grand Fair with her toes tapping and her arms full of discarded shawls, wraps and overcoats, Violet Benson felt like nothing so much as a human coat hanger—a coat hanger who wanted desperately to join in the fun.

All around her, the finest and largest house in all of Morrow Creek was packed to the gills with revelers. Her friends and neighbors were dancing, drinking and trying their luck at the evening’s games of chance, including the fancifully painted wheel of fortune donated by Jack Murphy. Now that the device wasn’t situated in his saloon, even the ladies felt free to place bets. Violet hadn’t yet done so herself, but she thought she might later if she ever divested herself of her burden.

“Oh! Violet! How nice to see you!” One of her longtime friends bustled over, all smiles. “Are you collecting wraps? Here—take mine.” She flung off her lace shawl, then added it to the pile in Violet’s arms. “You’re so kind. Thanks so much!”

“You’re welcome.” Rearranging the wraps, Violet glanced at her friend’s dance card. A number of gentlemen’s names adorned it already. “My, look at your card! Aren’t you popular tonight.”

“Yes!” Her friend beamed. “My card is almost full already, and I’ve only just arrived. But you must be in demand, too!”

In unison, their gazes dropped to the dance card at the very tips of Violet’s fingers. She hadn’t even claimed it by printing her own name in the designated space at the top yet. She’d been too busy fancifully perusing her card’s many blank partner spaces—imagining lots of suitors writing in their names with the small ribbon-attached pencil—when the first partygoer, another friend, had assigned her his overcoat for safekeeping.

Unfortunately her dance card remained conspicuously empty.

“Well—” her friend offered a cheering grin “—don’t worry. It’s early yet. Partners will be clamoring for you later on!”

Gamely, Violet grinned back. They both knew that wasn’t likely. As far as people in Morrow Creek were concerned, Violet—the minister’s plain-featured daughter—was better suited to doing good works than enjoying good times. Eventually, Violet reasoned, she would adjust herself completely to that fate.

In the meantime, she couldn’t quit tapping her toes. The latest song was a fully frolicsome one, and she loved dancing.

“Look! I see Adeline Wilson and Clayton Davis!” her friend exclaimed. “I must congratulate them on their engagement.”

Just like that, Violet was left alone again, stuck pinning up a wall with her shoulder blades and pining for a chance to dance. She watched as her very best friend, Adeline Wilson, gracefully accepted a fresh dose of congratulations, appearing typically beautiful and amiable all the while. Everything that Violet was not, Adeline was: pretty, dainty and sought-after.

But Violet possessed her own good qualities, she reminded herself staunchly. She was kindhearted, brave and intelligent. She was effective in her charity work. She was clever. She truly enjoyed doing good works. She had many close friends, as well.

So what if she had an empty dance card? That didn’t matter.

Except it did matter, Violet admitted to herself as she heaved a resigned sigh and went to put away all those bundled overcoats. In her heart of hearts, it mattered a great deal. Worthy pursuits were rewarding, that was true; but so was dancing!

There was nothing to be done about her empty dance card now, though. Nor was there any point in torturing herself with it any longer. Almost to the cloakroom, Violet tossed her dance card toward a nearby trash bin.

Likely there were several helpful tasks she ought to be doing anyway, and there’d be cleaning up to do later, too.

She should concentrate on practical matters, just as she always did…and leave the daydreaming to women like Adeline—women who stood a chance of having their fantasies come true.

At the conclusion of his initial assessment of the Territorial Benevolent Association Grand Fair, Cade noticed the woman who tossed away a dance card. With nimble movements, Cade snatched the card from midair. He was surprised to see it was empty. But empty or full, that didn’t matter for his purposes.

A man never knew when an accoutrement of belonging someplace, like a dance card, would come in handy. With a cursory glance at the primly dressed woman, Cade pocketed it. It might prove useful as an introduction to a conversation later.

He didn’t know anyone in Morrow Creek; except for his sponsor, the notoriously private Simon Blackhouse, Cade was alone. That’s why he’d made it a point to perform his usual analysis with extra caution, identifying every entrance and exit and cataloging every potentially dangerous character in attendance. A man couldn’t be too prepared. As Cade patted down his pristine suit coat pocket, assuring himself the empty dance card was secure, he reminded himself a man couldn’t be too vigilant either. In his line of work, surprises could be deadly.

Despite his expectations, though, it seemed the Grand Fair was nothing more than an ordinary rural raffle. On the stage across the ballroom, a wire cage held the raffle entries, ready for the drawing. A locked cash box stood beside it; foolishly, there was no guard in the vicinity to protect its contents. Near the refreshments table, partygoers bid on cakes and pies and other wholesome goodies. Banners and bunting hung gaily from the rafters. Gullible townspeople danced blithely beneath them.

To Cade’s jaundiced eye, the whole place seemed improbably virtuous. But no place was that good. No person was that good. Hell, even that mousy woman with her armful of coats and her downcast gaze probably had scandalous secrets to tell.

Cade simply needed to look closer. If he did, he knew he’d find the bad behavior he expected—and along with it, the inevitable wagering that he hoped would lead him to the elusive Percy Whittier—professional gambler, runaway family man and odds-on favorite to win the upcoming private faro tournament.

Unless, of course, Cade got to Whittier first.

And that’s exactly what he’d promised to do.

Another circuit of the Grand Fair later, after a few informative chats, some flirting and a bolt of whiskey, Cade found it: his first proper game of chance in Morrow Creek.

It was time to get to work.

Sliding in place between a dandified farmer—whose Saturday night shirt couldn’t disguise the grime of Friday’s labor—and a soberly dressed minister, Cade flexed his fingers. He offered his most charming smile. Then he hoped like hell his unlucky streak was at an end, because he needed a win.

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.

Disturbed by the return of that grin, Cade frowned, uncomfortably reminded that he didn’t truly know Blackhouse well enough to discern his intentions but had to trust him anyway.

Although charming, wealthy and advantageously footloose—with a private luxury train car and a loyal valet to prove it—Blackhouse was nonetheless a mysterious figure to Cade. They had met at a poker table in San Francisco and had become friends (of a kind) while outlasting every other player at the table. When Blackhouse had unexpectedly offered to finance Cade’s search for Percy Whittier, Cade had cautiously agreed. He hadn’t had the stakes to continue alone. Likely, Blackhouse had known that and had decided to exploit it…for whatever reasons.

He still didn’t know what Blackhouse’s interest in Whittier was. Knowing Blackhouse, it was something frivolous. All Cade knew was that Blackhouse had the money, Cade had the tenacity, and between them they could bring Whittier to heel.

“I don’t have time for any women,” Cade said. “Rom or not.” He told Blackhouse about spotting Whittier at the Grand Fair and about losing him during the dance. “He must still be in town.”

“Yes. Faro is his game. He’d be unlikely to miss the tournament.” Agreeably, Blackhouse cut the cards. He arranged them on the table between them, then nodded cannily at Cade. “Go ahead. Choose four. If you pick out all the aces, I’ll lay out an extra thousand for tonight’s gaming. And maybe lend you my overcoat, too.” An amused look. “You seem to have lost yours.”

Cade didn’t take the bait. He didn’t want to discuss giving his warm overcoat to the grimy-faced child sharper in the Morrow Creek alleyway. “I don’t need any more of your money.” Not yet. “Besides, the odds of choosing all four aces in a row are—”

“Inordinate. I know. That’s the point.” With a leisurely gesture, Blackhouse summoned Adams, his valet. “Do it.”

“Fine.” Exasperated, Cade flipped up four cards.

In short order, a queen and three aces stared up at him.

“See? Just as I thought.” Blackhouse pointed. “Not all four aces, that’s true, but still a good enough draw to prove I’m right. You should be delighted.” Yawning, Blackhouse selected a postmarked envelope from the silver tray that Adams offered him. He tossed it in front of Cade. “By the way, this letter from your brother arrived this morning. I hope Judah is well?”

Cade nodded, still boggling at his chosen cards. Turning up three aces was unbelievable. “His leg should be almost healed by now.” Distractedly, Cade frowned. “You must be double dealing.”

Blackhouse scoffed. “I’m not double dealing. I’m not trimming cards. I’m not even wearing a holdout, despite my enthusiasm for collecting such things.” He spread his arms, showing he was free of mechanical cheating devices. “It’s you, Foster. Just you. Your usual good luck has clearly returned.”

Dubiously, Cade regarded the cards. Like most sporting men, he believed in superstition. It was foolhardy and unreasonable not to. A man needed all the breaks he could get. But this…

“I think it must be your reformer who did it,” Blackhouse opined. “She’s your lucky charm. That’s the only explanation.”

Lucky charm. Cade could use one of those, especially now.

Still filled with disbelief, he scowled at the cards. He didn’t want to agree with Blackhouse. He didn’t want to believe in luck alone. But with no other leads readily available….

“Well, there’s only one way to find out, isn’t there?” Cade asked. “That’s to find my ‘lucky charm’ and see what happens.”

Then he threw on a necktie, grabbed his suit coat and hat, and went in search of his very own private do-gooder and (potential) good-luck charm.

God help him, he seemed to need her.

When Violet glimpsed the town newcomer, Cade Foster, from across the room at the charity kitchen she’d organized with the help of Grace Murphy and her ladies’ auxiliary club, she knew she had to be imagining things…which wasn’t altogether surprising, given how preoccupied she’d been since yesterday.

All afternoon long, even while ladling up soup and passing out bread donated by Molly Copeland’s popular bakery, Violet had relived last night’s dance at the Grand Fair. She’d recalled Cade Foster’s smile. She’d remembered his features. She’d contemplated his intriguingly muscular personhood and sighed over his eyes. She’d even envisioned herself seeing him again.

So a part of her wasn’t at all surprised to catch sight of him there. The rest of her knew that she should pinch herself—especially when Cade Foster spied her, raised his hand in a masculine greeting, then determinedly headed in her direction.

“Yes!” someone whispered nearby. “It’s definitely him!”

“Did you see them dancing together?” someone else added.

“I saw her leave him standing heartbroken on the dance floor!” a third gossip added in breathless tones. “Imagine that! Plain Violet Benson, the minister’s daughter, having the cheek to turn her back on a man who’s willing to dance with her!”

Well. Being the subject of such vaguely uncharitable gossip took some of the fun out of things, Violet thought. That was a new and unwelcome experience for her—one she’d helped Adeline through a time or two, though. Besides, she retorted to herself silently, she hadn’t left Cade on the dance floor. She’d gone to fetch her father—it was an entirely different thing. Tightening her hold on her soup ladle, she went on watching Cade approach.

Plainly, he was close enough to hear everything her fellow helpers were saying, Violet realized. Because almost imperceptibly, he angled his head toward that chatty clump of gossips, flashed them a brief but brilliant grin, then kept right on going.

Collectively, the three women swooned. For herself, Violet only stood there with her ladle at the ready. This, she realized with another flutter of excitement, might be her chance to fly!

Cade Foster might be her chance to dance through every part of her life—her chance to have some fun. It was exactly what she’d yearned for at the Grand Fair last night. Violet certainly didn’t have much to lose by trying something new. So that’s exactly what she meant to do—beginning right now, with Cade.

Maybe the local men hadn’t been able to glimpse Violet’s charms past Adeline Wilson’s dazzle, it occurred to her, but Cade had. That made him special. That made him worthy of joining her in her newfound quest to spread her wings.

At least that way, when she was Mrs. Sunley’s age, Violet reasoned, she’d have some thrilling memories to look back on.

Oblivious to her hasty decision making, Cade reached her.

“You’re a difficult woman to find.” This time, his smile touched her alone, leaving aside her sharp-tongued cohorts. “I’ve been to the jailhouse, Dr. Finney’s medical office, your father’s church and the schoolhouse—I was told you sometimes volunteer with schoolmarm McCabe. And now here you are in the very last place I thought to look.”

“Well, you always find everything in the very last place you look, don’t you?” Violet couldn’t help staring. She felt defenseless against his charisma, spellbound by his voice, fascinated by his just-for-her smile. With Cade Foster inside it, her charity kitchen suddenly felt much too small and meager. “If you kept on searching after that it would be silly.”

Cade Foster blinked. Then he laughed. “That’s true.”

“You may be glib, Mr. Foster, but I’m sensible.” Violet ladled up some soup for the next recipient. She gave the needy woman a smile, then received a warm thank-you in return. The line of recipients moved up a pace. “As you can see, I’m quite busy here, as well. So if you want to talk charming nonsense to me, I’m afraid you’ll just have to do it later.”

A shared gasp came from nearby. Evidently, her colleagues were still eavesdropping, and they fully expected her to fall at Cade’s feet, lovesick with longing, at the first opportunity.

He gave her another grin. “You think I’m charming, then?”

“And glib. I also said ‘glib.’ Didn’t you hear that part?”

“I heard it. But I don’t think you believe it.”

Violet smiled. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

“Truly?” Mr. Foster seemed intrigued by that notion, commonplace as it was. He moved closer, nearly shoulder to shoulder with her. “Do you always say exactly what you think?”

“Why not?” Violet stirred her soup. “Don’t you?”

“I’m a professional sporting man, Miss Benson. I make my living on hope and happenstance. Honesty doesn’t enter into it.”

“It seemed to do so last night. Between us.”

At her words, he seemed taken aback. “Well, I was honest with you about not being a desperate man,” Mr. Foster said, “so if that’s what you mean regarding honesty between us—”

“No,” Violet interrupted gently. “I mean that, after we danced, you told me I would be swamped with suitors. That’s what you said. Honestly. I didn’t believe you, but you were right!” Gleefully, she confided further, “After you left the Grand Fair, I went through two more dance cards!”

Alone in her bedroom afterward—with care and no small measure of disbelief—she’d pressed those signature-filled dance cards between her Bible pages for safekeeping. She’d thought they might be her only mementos of that extraordinary night. But now that Cade Foster had arrived, all broad shouldered and fascinating, at her charity kitchen, the world felt ripe with possibilities. Given his occupation, he seemed twice as likely to be capable of satisfying her urge for extra zest in her dutiful, workaday life.

“Two dance cards? You danced that much?” Relief softened his features, lending sparkle to his vivid eyes. “That must have been fun.”

“It was unprecedented,” Violet told him candidly. She handed a hunk of bread to the next recipient. “I’ve never danced so much in all my life! I’m sure it was because of you. By dancing with me last night, you seem to have kindled some sort of curiosity about me, Mr. Foster.”

“The men in Morrow Creek aren’t alone in being curious about you.” Intimately, he lowered his voice. “I am, too. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

“I’ll only be sorry when it’s over.” Violet sighed, still reminiscing about last night. “Before long, folks in town will forget this, and I’ll be back to cheering up the wallflowers at parties while everyone else…” She paused, belatedly realizing the astonishing admission he’d made. “You? Thinking about me?”

She nearly had to use her soup ladle to close her gaping jaw. The very notion was dumbfounding. And thrilling too!

“Yes. You’re going to be very important to me, Miss Benson. I can feel it.” Pausing to study the visitors to the charity kitchen, Cade Foster stepped into place beside Violet. Adeptly, he handed a bowl of soup and some bread to the next person in line. The poor woman who received it nearly fainted with glee at being served by him. He didn’t seem to notice her obvious ardor. “I’d like to become equally important to you, if you’ll let me.”

Violet flashed him a dubious look. She might be hopeful, but she was not an imbecile. Nor was she especially naive.

“You could have the company of any woman in town.” As proof, Violet gestured to the other volunteers. To a woman, they were gazing swoonily, chin in hand, at Cade Foster’s handsome countenance. All three of them sighed. One waved. “Do you expect me to believe that of all the ladies in town, you are interested in me? I know what I look like, Mr. Foster. As a minister’s daughter, I can’t bring you a fine dowry, either. So—”

“I’m not asking for your hand in marriage.” He seemed disturbed by her rebuttal and maybe a mite perplexed, too. “Is there someplace we can talk about this privately?”

Violet shook her head. As much as she wanted to be more venturesome, she did have obligations to consider. Besides, thinking about adventuring was not the same as doing it.

“Not unless I quit work,” she said, “and that’s—”

Impossible, Violet meant to say.

But before she could, her fellow volunteers interrupted.

“Very easily done!” one of them said.

Chattering and smiling, they stripped Violet of her soup ladle. They untied her apron and smoothed her upswept hair. They filled in her place in line, then all but shoved her forcibly out the door with the gambler. At that, Violet couldn’t help forgiving them their unkind gossip earlier. She wasn’t a woman who held a grudge. No doubt they’d simply been surprised that she’d been so popular with Mr. Foster last night…and today.

That made four of them. Because she was surprised, too.

“Go on!” one of her friends urged cheerfully. “You work all the time! If anyone deserves a break, Violet, it’s you.”

“Yes. Have fun.” Another friend winked. “We’ll take care of everything here. Don’t you worry about a thing. He’s a gambler, isn’t he? So why don’t you take a chance for a change? On him!”

So, with no further avenue of protest available to her and with Cade Foster standing patiently nearby, Violet did just that: she took a chance…on a gambler.

Sitting beside Cade on a narrow bench outside the charity kitchen next to a sweeping ponderosa pine tree and a branching rivulet of the nearby creek, Violet Benson shook her head.

Plainly surprised, she asked, “You want me to do what?”

Cade didn’t answer at first. He simply felt too distracted by what she’d said earlier: I know what I look like, Mr. Foster.

That admission was telling. It was, as Cade was rapidly learning, characteristically direct, too. If he’d been a crueler man, he would have used Miss Benson’s feelings about her appearance to gain an advantage. As it was, Cade could only examine her through clear eyes, wondering what it must be like to live as Violet Benson did: plain featured and overlooked.

Unexpectedly, a kinship arose inside him. He knew what it felt like to be overlooked—to be left behind. He didn’t want that for her or anyone.

Of a certain, Violet’s pale red hair was not quite as stylishly arranged as the other ladies’ was. Her complexion was a mite too ruddy to be called fashionably pale. Her teeth sported a gap in front, and her nose was too assertive to be considered strictly “pretty.” But her hazel eyes were vivacious, her mouth was full and gentle looking, and her hands…

Well, her hands stirred in Cade an unlikely wish to be blessed by her touch—to be granted that salvation she’d alluded to last night when they’d danced. Appalled by the realization, he frowned. He repeated the proposition he’d just made to her.

“I want you to be my good-luck charm. To be available to me at a moment’s notice before faro games and hands of poker.” He spied her mistrustful expression and added, “I’ll pay you for the privilege, of course. I wouldn’t consider asking you to do this otherwise. It’s only fair that you’re compensated.”

She made a face. “You really believe in good-luck charms?”

“I can’t afford not to. Mine is a precarious business.”

“And you believe I am yours?” She sounded amused. And intrigued. And unexpectedly compassionate, too. Her very presence exuded kindheartedness and care and a certain special exuberance that intrigued him. “Your good-luck charm, I mean?”

“After I met you,” Cade said simply, “my luck changed.”

For a moment, Violet Benson gazed across the street that bordered the charity kitchen. Wagons and buggies passed by; the clomping of hooves raised drifts of dust. Those drifts reminded Cade of cigar smoke—and of losing sight of Percy Whittier.

He might be a fool, it occurred to Cade, to ally himself with the same woman who’d disastrously distracted him from his search for Whittier last night. He hoped he didn’t regret this.

“If you have enough money to pay me, why do you need luck?” Violet Benson asked astutely. “Why do you need to win at all?”

That was easy. “Because I don’t gamble to win money.”

“Then you’re not doing it properly.” She gave a pert smile.

Unable to resist as he should have done, Cade returned that smile. “I entered the gambling circuit to track down a man I’m searching for,” he explained. “It’s been several years now. I’ve come close. I’ve had clues and false leads and near misses. But I’ve never faced him across a gambling table. I’ve never caught up with him long enough to get what I want from him. To do that, I need to win. I need to get invited to all the best tables. I need to fit in among the men he runs with.”

“If you plan to kill him, I won’t help you.” Suddenly chilly where she’d once been warm, Violet Benson examined him. “I’ll help Sheriff Caffey track you down, in fact. I have a fair sense of what you look like, as does every other woman in town.”

This time, Cade smiled more artfully. “I’m flattered by your attention,” he said in a teasing tone. Deliberately, he flashed both dimples. “I have every intention of rewarding it, too, in ways I think we’d both enjoy…very, very much.”

“Right now,” Violet clarified drily, “I’m memorizing your features so I can help the deputy draw a wanted poster.”

Hmm. Charming female subjects was something Cade had learned to excel at. Perversely, he felt impressed that Violet Benson appeared too levelheaded to fall for his misdirection.

“I want answers from him, that’s all.” Cade leveled a square look at Violet. “I want to know why he ran out on his family back East. They loved him and needed him, and he—”

Unexpectedly, Cade heard his voice break. A powerful sense of bereavement and anger and solitude welled inside him.

He scarcely knew what to make of it. Irately, he reasoned that Violet Benson and her damnable compassion had caused it. For the second time that day, he wondered if he was making a terrible mistake by coming to her—by trusting her even this far.

“He must have had a good reason for leaving,” she said in a thoughtful tone, proving his caution was warranted. Naively, she added, “No man would ever abandon his family unless—”

“Percy Whittier did.” Hard-faced, Cade stared at her. He needed to hold on to his fury and hurt. It fueled him when he didn’t want to continue searching. He didn’t need Violet Benson’s natural empathy to awaken something soft inside him—something that was better left to wither and die, as it had been on its way to doing before he’d met her. “Percy Whittier left his family. There’s no reason in the world that excuses that.”

“I see.” Violet inhaled. “You seem very intent on finding this man. Are you a detective, then, hired by his family?”

“No.” Cade noticed his hands were shaking. He clenched them, hoping to make the shaking stop.

“A U.S. Marshal? A lawman of some sort?”

“No.” Hellfire. Why couldn’t he quit shaking? “Neither.”

“Hmm. You’re going to have to be a bit more forthcoming if you expect me to help you.” Through inquisitive eyes, Violet studied him. Lightly, she touched his fisted hand. Like magic, he stopped trembling. Awed, Cade stared as she stroked him, soothingly, the same way a parent might calm a frightened child or a caregiver might help a wounded man. “I might be plain and sensible and occasionally overlooked,” she said, “but I’m also—”

“Forbidden to talk about yourself that way,” Cade interrupted in his sternest tone. It aggrieved him that she kept on referring to herself as ugly and passed over. Surely the folks in this little creekside town weren’t so blind that they couldn’t see she had worth beyond bland prettiness. “I won’t have it. If we’re going to strike a bargain between us, you’ll have to quit reminding me of how ‘unattractive’ you are.”

“I know, I know.” Self-consciously, Violet Benson ducked her head. She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand, a bit nervously now. “What God gave me is just fine. The Lord doesn’t make mistakes in creating us. My father’s told me those things many, many times.” She lifted her gaze to his face, her eyes flashing with a glimmer of defiance. “But that doesn’t mean, Mr. Foster, that you have license to call me unattractive!”

Stricken, Cade gazed at her. “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“I’ve made peace with my looks,” Violet went on rather huffily, “but I still expect common decency from people. Even you! That was thoughtless and unkind. You must know that.”

He hadn’t known that. He’d only been repeating what she’d said herself. Maybe he’d been on this hunt for Whittier for too long. Maybe he was becoming unfit for society. Maybe, with every hand of cards and risky wager, he was losing…everything.

“I’m very sorry.” He was, too. Very rapidly, she was becoming more than a means to restoring his good luck. She was becoming…essential. Carefully, Cade raised his free hand to her slender jaw. He turned her face to his. “I like looking at you. I’ve never known anyone whose emotions were so evident.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a compliment.”

“It is a compliment. From a man who spends all day being as poker-faced as possible.” He smiled. “I find you…fascinating.”

“Truly?” Violet’s lips quirked. Her wide hazel eyes held a challenge. “Can you guess what emotion I’m feeling right now?”

“Suspicion.” Cade stroked her cheek, just once, then made himself let her go. He missed her softness almost immediately. “But you don’t have to be suspicious of me, Miss Benson.”

“Call me Violet. Then perhaps I won’t be.”

That brought a smile to his face. “I’d be honored to do so. And you should call me Cade. Please call me Cade.”

“All right. Cade.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Heaven knows, you might be the only man who ever invites such familiarity from me. I guess I might as well enjoy it!”

Again, Cade looked at her sternly. “I can make sure you enjoy it. I can make sure every man in Morrow Creek wants you.”

She arched her brow at his certainty, seeming more than a little bit doubtful. “You’re not a detective, a marshal or a lawman.” Her smile turned playful. “You’re a miracle worker!” He’d had enough. “The real tragedy in life isn’t failing to believe that hope exists, Violet. It’s convincing yourself that you don’t want any hope, even when it’s right in front of you.”

“Are you talking about me? Or about you?”

Cade snorted. “I’m talking about the likelihood of your choosing from among a dozen smitten suitors if you help me.”

“You mean if I behave as your lucky charm?”

A nod. “Once everyone sees us together, people will look at you with new eyes. They’ll wonder why I want you—why I’m captivated with you. They’ll imagine…all manner of things.”

She inhaled again, steadying herself. “Good things?”

The lilt of hopefulness in her voice was heartrending.

“Good things,” Cade affirmed, feeling touched by her beyond all reason. He didn’t know why he wanted to help her—why he wanted to erase her wrongheaded notion that she was undesirable and unnoticed. He only knew that he did. “Everyone wants what they can’t have. Especially men. I know more about human nature than I want to, after all these years of wagering, and I know that’s true. Let me show you, Violet. Let’s strike a deal.”

Hesitating, she bit her lip. “Who will know about this?”

“As far as your friends and neighbors are concerned, I’ll be courting you,” Cade swore, taking her hand. “That’s all.”

A glance. “But really I’ll be bringing you good luck.”

She was smart, he realized. And much less naive than he’d thought. That made Cade feel better about this whole endeavor.

“Yes,” he said. “You’ll be bringing me good luck.” He offered her a winning smile—one he knew was persuasive. “But hopefully that good luck will be shared by us both.”

“You know,” she mused, giving him another of her patented, too-observant looks, “I think you’re an optimist at heart.”

“I think you’ve only just met me,” Cade disagreed, “and it shows.”

Her smile touched him, suddenly mysterious. “Well, you’d better find some optimism, then. Because I can only do this if my father agrees. That means you’ll have to impress him at dinner tonight and obtain his blessing. Will I see you at six?”

Sunnily and capably, Violet gave him the particulars.

Dumbstruck at the realization that he’d have to impress a straitlaced minister to put his good-luck-charm plan in motion, Cade hesitated. Then he nodded. The minute he did so, Violet Benson jumped up from her bench, briskly said goodbye, then left him alone while she returned to her charitable good works.

That was twice she’d left him stranded, Cade realized as he watched her leave. The first time, on the Grand Fair dance floor, he’d purposely allowed her to do so. The second time…

Well, the second time, just now, he hadn’t. Damnation. Was it possible that an innocent small-town girl had outmaneuvered him?

Worse, was it possible that a reformer had outfoxed him?

No. He was worldly, intelligent and determined. No one could outwit him. Except maybe Percy Whittier. And even then only a few times.

But the man wasn’t a god, and he wasn’t infallible. He was only irredeemable. With a little more effort, Cade knew he would find him. Then he would get the answers he needed.

The answers he’d promised Judah.

In the meantime, Cade had a few more hours to spend before dinnertime at the Benson household. That was just enough time, he reckoned, to write to his brother, beat Blackhouse at cards a few more times…and strategize how best to turn Violet Benson into an irresistible temptress, all before Cade left town in the next week or two.

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