Wild Card

She kept right on wiping that glass. She polished the darned thing as if it was Irish crystal instead of green glass.

He moved in close, his chest pressing against the edge of the bar, his fingers curving over the polished wood trim. He flexed his shoulders like a man who was tired. “Look, lady, it doesn’t matter to me if you’re closed or open. Where’s Bill?”

“He’s not here. We’re closed.”

His mouth, the one that had smiled so seductively, now curved down in a hard, fierce line. A muscle flexed in his cheek. “I got that, lady.”

Stay calm. He doesn’t know anything. He’s looking for Bill, remember?

“Bill left on the stage yesterday. If you leave now, you could catch him, I’m sure.”

Jake arched one brow in question. “You think I’m going back out in this to go chasing . after Bill? Woman, are you crazy, or what?”

“You’re the one who was asking about Bill. So go after him if you want to see him.” There, she thought, feeling more churlish than cautious.

At that moment the rain turned particularly heavy. Lightning close enough to illuminate the room in a bolt of white light Thunder crashed.

Jake saw the woman jump, heard her sudden intake of breath. If he hadn’t been so tired he would’ve jumped himself.

“You all right?” he asked, wondering if it was entirely the storm that had her on edge.

“What? Yes. Sure. I’m fine,” she said with not a bit of conviction. “Now you have to leave.” She put the glass down and picked up another.

For the first time he really looked at her. Up until now all he’d been thinking about was sleep. However, he began to think about just how pretty she was—blond hair, blue eyes, delicate features that hardly fit the usual saloon-girl image.

He propped one foot on the brass railing and settled in for one or two more questions. “Are you from around here?” He didn’t get up this way much, but he was sure he’d have remembered her.

“No” was all the answer he got—almost all. “We’re closed,” she repeated emphatically.

“You keep saying that. You know, I could start to take this personally.”

“Good,” she retorted, her tone brusque enough to make him curious. She had on a yellow blouse that had seen one too many washings. The long sleeves were rolled up and the collar was high under her chin. She had on a black skirt. He’d seen that before she’d hightailed it behind the bar. It was long and full and revealed absolutely nothing of her womanly curves.

Ah, now, why would a saloon girl want to conceal anything? Her skin was winter pale, not powdered or painted, and her hair was pinned up in a haphazard way that bespoke more practicality than come-hither.

The more he looked, the more curious he got, and since the subtle approach hadn’t worked thus far he decided to go straight for the gut. “All right, woman. Who are you? Why did Bill leave?”

She blinked twice, then said, “Drink?” With a flurry of motion she retrieved a glass from the shelf behind the bar.

Jake regarded her through narrowed eyes—narrowed mostly because they hurt, like the rest of him. He needed sleep. “What? No, I don’t want a drink.” He ran the flat of his hand over his face, trying to wipe the exhaustion away. Maybe if he could clear his mind some of this would make sense.

When he looked again she was pouring liquor, the drink he’d just turned down. With a sigh he ignored the glass she was intently shoving at him. “I asked your name.”

“Why?”

“Is it a secret?” He could be as tenacious as her.

“It’s none of your business. Now, have a drink if that’s what you came for, then leave. I keep telling you we’re closed.”

Thunder rumbled overhead and she flinched. He saw her fingers tighten on the glass, saw her gaze dart to the window.

“You’re sure you’re all right?” he asked one more time.

“Yes.” Her tone was curt.

Okay, he’d had enough. Without another word he retrieved his hat and coat from the table where he had tossed them. He looped his slicker over his shoulder, the muddy hem banging against his pant leg, smudging the black wool with mud. “I’m going to bed.”

“Goodbye,” she said, her lips curving up in the closest thing to a smile he’d seen since he’d walked in. “Come in again sometime, when we’re open.”

Of course, Clair didn’t mean a word of it. She was hoping he’d get on his horse and ride out of town, never to be seen again. Bounty hunters were trouble. Bounty hunters with suggestive smiles were a whole other kind of trouble. She wasn’t in the market for either.

She circled around the bar intent on following him to the door and closing it firmly behind him.

She was making a beeline for the front when she realized he was headed up her stairs. “Hey, hold on there.” She skidded to a halt and planted her balled fists at her waist. “Where do you think you’re going, mister?”

The man never stopped, just kept plodding up the stairs, his boots making one hollow thud after another, like a man climbing to the gallows. “Like I said, I’m going to bed.” Gripping the oak banister, he glanced back over his shoulder long enough to say, “Care to join me?”

It was a brazen, impudent remark and she should be offended. She was offended. The nerve of the man!

Never mind the wicked grin on his face, never mind the dimples that were barely visible through the beard.

The man has dimples!

Rogues and scoundrels and charmers had dimples. Bounty hunters did not. Even so, it took two tries to get her voice to work. “I most certainly don’t wish to join you! Now get off my stairs and out of my saloon!”

He turned on her, gunfighter slow, and she actually took a step back, banging into the wall by the front windows. Her eyes were riveted to his.

“What do you mean, it’s your saloon?”

She was in it now. That temper of hers was on a rampage. “I—” she thumbed her chest near the top button of her blouse “—own the Scarlet Lady.”

He came down a step, then paused again.

There was no sign of humor or kindness in his eyes or tone when he spoke, and she instinctively knew this was the darker side of the man, the side that killed people. “All right, honey, let’s have it. What’s going on?”

Clair’s temper knew when to beat a retreat, and this was definitely time. In a voice that was mild, maybe even a little shaky, she said, “I own the Scarlet Lady.

“Since when?”

“Since yesterday.”

“You buy it?”

“I won it.”

“how?”

“In a card game.”

He closed in on her like a predator on the hunt, standing on the bottom step so that he towered over her even more. “You’re a gambler?” There was a bit of the incredulous in his voice—and disdain.

Who the hell did he think he was to judge her? “Yes,” she returned, refusing to flinch. “I’m a gambler. What of it?”

“And you tricked Bill out of the place, huh?”

“No. I won the saloon fair and square, not that it’s any of your business, and if anyone tries to say different I’ll—”

“Hold on, honey. I believe you.” He held up his hands in surrender, but since they were both holding weapons, a shotgun and a rifle to be precise, he didn’t look very meek.

“Don’t call me honey,” she snapped back.

“Fine.” He started back up the stairs again speaking as he went. “Look...whatever your name is...I have a deal with Bill. When I’m in town I sleep here...up there.” He pointed to the second-floor landing and the two furnished rooms that were there.

Panic merged with that temper of hers. She’d moved in here right after Bill had left, figuring to save the rent money. “You can’t sleep here.”

He was still climbing the stairs. “Lady, I’m not arguing with you. I’ve been on the trail a week, the last three days without enough sleep to fill a shot glass. I’m going to bed.”

“Find another place.”

“No.”

“I’m ordering you to leave,” she said with all the authority she could muster, which was usually enough to send a bleary-eyed cowboy on his way. This man had the audacity to laugh.

“Honey, you want to stop me, then you’re gonna have to shoot me. As a matter of fact, I wish you would, just to put me out of my misery.”

Tempting as that was, she resisted. These days she had an understandable aversion to guns. “I could call the marshal and have you thrown out.”

He was nearing the top of the stairs. “Go ahead and call the marshal. It won’t do you any good.”

“And just why not?” she hollered after him. “I doubt the marshal has any sympathy for bounty hunters.”

“Bounty hunter? Is that what you think?” He paused on the landing long enough to look down at her. “I’m no bounty hunter. I’m Jake McConnell. I’m the sheriff of Carbon County.”

Chapter Three

Morning came as cold and gray and wet as yesterday. The rain and gloom were bad enough; having a sheriff, of all things, sleeping in the next room—well, that was nothing short of a disaster waiting to happen.

With a flounce of sheet and quilt and nightgown she rolled over in the bed and was rewarded with a chill where her feet touched the sheet her body hadn’t warmed yet.

“Damn man,” she muttered, punching her pillow, trying to get a little fluff out of the feathers that were long since matted down to the thickness of an envelope.

Her hair fell across her face and she swiped it back. Muscles in her back hurt and her eyes felt as if there was gravel in them. That was lack of sleep, she knew. That was his fault, too.

Of all the things the man could be, he had to be a sheriff! Jake McConnell. Yeah, that was his name.

She rolled over again, trying to get comfortable. Useless. As for him, she wished now he was a bounty hunter. At least bounty hunters and gamblers were both on the fringes of the law. Gamblers and lawmen were natural enemies, like rabbits and wolves. She was feeling decidedly like the rabbit, and she didn’t like the feeling, not one bit.

Out of nowhere she was assailed with images of another sheriff. Him holding her down, tearing her clothes, forcing up her skirt...

No! She refused to think about that. She refused to give in to panic or fear that washed over her faster than a flash flood.

Throwing back the covers, she scrambled to her feet, her toes flexing against the chill of the bare floor. A couple of short steps and she was at the window. The sash worked easily and she leaned down to take a deep breath of fresh, sage-scented air. The rain was finer today, the drops like tiny pellets, which stung her face and dampened the front of her nightgown, making the cotton cling to her bare flesh beneath.

She forced herself to think about the rain and the cold and the wagon that was rumbling along the street below, anything but the terrifying images that continued to haunt her when she least expected it.

Enough, she told herself. She owned a saloon now. She was making a new life, She had to let go of what she couldn’t change, and move on.

No regrets. No turning back.

With a resolute determination, she shoved her sleep-tousled hair behind her shoulder. It was morning, the start of a new day, a new beginning. A day filled with possibilities and chances to be taken. What was a gambler if not a chance taker?

The creak of door hinges and boot steps on the bare wooden floor caught her attention and she turned toward the closed door to her room. She knew he was out there, on the landing, moving around. Would he knock on her door? What would she do if he did? There was a moment of uneasiness, then she remembered that he hadn’t bothered her during the night.

For that matter he could have made advances in the saloon, could have done just about anything he’d wanted—they were alone, then as now. He hadn’t.

So he’s not a lecher. So what? Are you going to invite him to tea?

Hardly. She knew quite clearly the danger she was in. Having a sheriff under the same roof was like having an open flame in a fireworks factory. There was bound to be an explosion. The only question was when.

Well, maybe she could put that flame out.

She knew a couple of things. First, he wasn’t here looking for her. Because if he was, and he’d recognized her, then he would have said or done something last night.

A smile threatened, but she knew she wasn’t in the clear yet. He was not the local law. No, she’d seen the town marshal yesterday, an older man who looked as though he ought to be someone’s grandfather. Local law, she’d convinced herself, was too remote to be aware of “things,” of people wanted in faraway places like Texas, for instance.

But a county sheriff, well, that was different. He would get the posters and such, if there were any.

In the meantime, she had an immediate problem. How to stay away from him until he left town. He was probably downstairs just waiting for her so he could ask some more of those questions he’d had such a supply of last night. Lawmen.

She listened at the door, trying to hear if he was moving around. Nothing. Silence.

She went back to the window and lifted the shade with one hand. Son of a gun, there he was crossing the street. She pulled back the shade more, wanting to get a good look. No time for mistakes.

Nope, it was him, all right. He was so tall and broad shouldered, she couldn’t miss him if she wanted to. And she did—want to miss him, that is.

But he was there, trudging across the street. headed straight for the marshal’s office. Could it be? Her stomach clenched in anticipation. He’d left. Just like that. No words. No questions. Just gone.

Her spirits soared.

“Lord, I’m sorry I doubted you.”

She saw him go into the office. Yes! This had to be it. He was leaving. He was probably going over to say goodbye. He was probably anxious to get going; there were other places he needed to see, maybe criminals he needed to take back to Rawlins.

Relief washed through her. “Yes!” she said to the empty room. All that worrying, all that losing sleep had been for nothing.

Well, this called for a celebration—coffee. She made quick work of getting dressed in a royal blue skirt and pale green shirtwaist, and ignored her corset completely. It was a celebration, after all.

She washed up in the bowl on the washstand and twisted her hair up in a serviceable knot on the top of her head. She’d change later for business, assuming the storm let up enough to have some business. In the meantime, she’d do a little of that fixing up she’d been thinking about.

Grinning like a kid with a brand-new peppermint stick, she strolled out onto the landing. The door to his room, or rather, her extra room, was open a foot or so. She would have to see about fixing it up. Maybe she could rent it to someone—not a sheriff or marshal or bounty hunter, but someone. A little extra money would help with expenses.

Using only the tips of her fingers, she pushed the door open as though she expected him to jump out at her, then chided herself for her foolishness. In a blink she noticed that his shirt, the blue one from last night, was draped around the curved-back chair, the hem dragging on the dust-covered floor.

What the devil? His shirt. His saddlebags.

That joy of hers dissolved faster than sugar in hot water, which was exactly what she was in. It didn’t take a genius to figure that if his things were here, then he’d be back.

Her temper got the best of her. She had half a mind to pack up his things and toss them right out on the sidewalk, rain or no rain, sheriff or no sheriff.

Good move. Let’s make the lawman angry. That’s a sure way to keep from calling attention to yourself.

“Damn the man.”

Breathing a little harder, she stood there glaring at the rumpled bed he’d slept in. That was her bed and her room and her saloon. The man had no right, sheriff or not.

Why, just look at the way he’d tossed that quilt off the end of the bed. It wasn’t his quilt, so what did he care? Never mind that it wasn’t hers, either, until yesterday.

She stormed in and picked it up, intent on putting it on the bed. Instantly she was assaulted with the feeling that she had invaded his privacy, which was ridiculous, but she felt it all the same.

Her eyes went immediately to the straw-filled mattress, to the shape of his lean body perfectly outlined there. She dropped that quilt faster than a stick of dynamite and took a half step back.

Her eyes were riveted on the bed. Heart racing, she was starkly aware that his bed was against the wall, the same wall that her bed was against, the same wall that was the only barrier that kept them from being intimately close.

She suddenly wondered what it would be like to open her eyes and see Jake McConnell there first thing in the morning. There was something about him that stirred her up just a bit, and... Tiny nerves in her skin fluttered to life, prickling as though skimmed by an electric charge.

Stop it right now!

On a sharp breath, Clair marched from the room. She was not going to think about dark-eyed men with the devil’s own smile. She was not!

That familiar ache was building behind her eyes and muscles were knotting along her shoulders. Coffee, she needed some coffee. She marched down the stairs with the precision of a West Point cadet.

Fortunately, Bill had a supply of coffee and a few cans of food, but the storage closet was dark—bordering on well-bottom black—and trying to read the labels was next to impossible. She heard the wind howl outside an instant before the closet door slammed shut and cut off any and all light.

Alone in the dark, a childhood fear surfaced in a gut-wrenching instant.

She threw down the can she’d been holding and lunged for the door. “Open,” she commanded, as though there was some power holding it shut. She tried the knob. It turned, but the door didn’t move. “Come on,” she demanded, more loudly and urgently this time. “Open, will you?”

Panic took shape and form like a demon lurking in the darkness, waiting, watching, ready. to pounce.

Heart racing, breath ragged, she jiggled the knob again, twisting hard, her skin nearly tearing on the brass knob. “Open!” she ordered once more. With all her weight she pulled on the door and this time the door obeyed.

With a creak and groan, the door flew open and she half fell, half stumbled into the empty saloon, managing to stay on her feet only by her grip on the knob and some fancy footwork.

She stood there, bent slightly at the waist, trying to regain her breath, her composure. Eyes shut, she waited for the panic to melt away.

When, finally, she felt in control again, she spared the threatening cave a look.

With a shake of her head, she forced a little laugh, mostly to dispel the last of the demons. Demons always went away when you laughed at them.

“Dumber than a prairie dog,” she muttered to herself. Now, there was something she hadn’t heard in a while. Sully had always said that, usually to her.

Sully. Why, she hadn’t thought of him in years. She put a chair in front of the closet door this time, took a lamp from the bar with her for light and found the coffee and the pot.

The stove, which she’d started earlier, was going nicely and she fetched water from the rain barrel out back. A couple of scoops and she set the pot to boiling.

Clair always liked her coffee strong and hot. She liked to feel the steam against her cheek and wasn’t above blowing on the liquid, even if it was not ladylike.

But Sully was different.

Sully had liked coffee mild—not too mild, but mild. She never was quite sure what that meant, but she certainly knew when she got it wrong. Sully got angry if his coffee was too hot or too strong. Wouldn’t want Sully to get angry. She shook her head in disgust—or wonder, she wasn’t sure.

She took a seat at the table closest to the stove and let her mind wander back a few years.

She’d met Sully in New Orleans. Clair had been seventeen and green as spring grass. Sully was tall, dark and handsome and had a way of talking that could charm a preacher’s daughter right out of the church. Sully always knew what to say to get his way—with her, and with about any other woman, she had come to realize too late.

She went to check on the coffee and tossed a small piece of firewood into the stove, using her skirt as hand protection when she closed the door.

She stood there warming herself, listening to the metal crack and snap as it expanded with the heat. Rain sprayed the windows, and the distant rumble of thunder echoed off the mountains.

Sully had always liked warm weather. He’d never have made it around here, not in this damp cold. Of course, there was no danger of running into Sully here or anywhere else. Poor Sully, she’d heard he was dead—shot by a jealous husband, no doubt.

She’d felt bad when she’d heard, though why, she wasn’t sure. Lord knew he’d lied and cheated on her, used and abused her and always had a reason they couldn’t get married.

Four years. That’s how long she’d stayed. That’s how long it had taken her to wise up and figure out that she could make it on her own, that she’d be better off on her own. It simply came to her one day, one morning. She woke up and knew she didn’t love him anymore, that if this was what love was she wanted no part of it.

Sully hadn’t taken her announced departure gracefully. It had taken a month for the bruises on her face to heal.

The coffee boiled over, brown liquid foaming and sizzling on the hot surface. Thoughtlessly, she grabbed the handle. “Ouch!”

Searing pain shot up her fingers and through her hand. Remembering to use her skirt as protection, she dragged the pot off the burner then plunged her hand into the bucket of water, gritting her teeth as the cold of the water covered the burn. Her eyes fluttered closed as she moved her fingers in the water.

Another minute and she lifted her hand out to take a look. She could see her palm was as red as flannel but not a blister in sight. Thank goodness for small blessings. The pain eased off to almost nothing.

Just thinking about men is trouble.

Well, no more. Ever since Sully, she’d sworn off. She didn’t think about men, didn’t want a man, didn’t need a man. Instinctively, her eyes lifted to the top of the stairs.

Nope! She wasn’t thinking about him anymore. He could come and go—especially go.

With that thought firmly in place, Clair went to check on the storm. The sky was still gray, but optimistically lighter, and the rain was more of a mist than anything else.

No one much was stirring and the street was more like a lake bottom. She had the distinct feeling few, if any, men would be venturing out just to have a drink or play a hand of cards.

That being the case, she might as well leave that Closed sign in the window and do some housekeeping. Nothing like hard work to keep her mind off...things.

Cleaning required soap so, after retrieving her coat and some money from upstairs, she ventured outside, made a dash along the plank sidewalk and ducked into the mercantile, which was three doors down on the same side.

Large and square, the store had wooden counters on three sides. The walls were white wood and the counters a shade of pale blue. The glass in the cases gleamed from recent cleaning, and all the wall space was lined with shelves, floor to ceiling. They were well stocked with everything imaginable, including brightly labeled canned food—mustard to canned oysters. The countertops were stacked high with rolls of calico and gingham, and near the back, barrels held an assortment of brooms and rakes and shovels like some strange bouquet.

A narrow-faced young clerk watched intently.

“Morning.” She brushed the rain from her hair and smiled.

“Morning,” the clerk answered, his somber expression split with a broad grin that revealed a broken bottom tooth. “Miserable weather to be out.”

“Yes, it sure is.” She strolled along one counter, looking at the needles and thread and carved hair combs displayed under the glass. Window-shopping was a weakness.