The Law And Miss Hardisson

She could not remember. When he had looked at her, under her corset her heart began to hammer like a piston and her thoughts flew up and away like so many dandelion puffs.

She smoothed her palm over the carved oak banister in the hall and stepped with exaggerated dignity onto the first stair. “I am becoming a notional old maid with a silly brain that goes into flutters over a Texas Ranger’s smile! Well, I will have none of that, thank you. None whatsoever!” She reached the top landing and marched to her bedroom door.

Inside, the golden afternoon light poured in the open window, bringing the scent of roses and Mrs. Gerstein’s honeysuckle vine from the neighboring yard. Irene shut her eyes. Papa is gone.

She opened her eyes and spoke aloud to the windowpane. “And he is never coming back.”

“Cut the cards, mister?”

Clayton reached out his good arm and split the deck. He’d played seven hands, won the pot after the last one, and now his mind wandered away from the game while the dealer slapped cards down onto the scarred oak table.

Sweat crawled down his back. He felt off balance. He’d unpinned the badge on his vest to forestall questions, had been invited to join the game with no inquiries. He wondered if the five men gathered around the table would be as friendly if they knew he was a Texas Ranger. If they knew he was after information, they might clam up.

He didn’t belong here. If they knew he was half Cherokee, he wouldn’t even be allowed in. The sign in the hotel lobby said No Indians. He longed to get up and leave, but it was too early to break up the game. He hadn’t learned a damn thing about Fortier so far. Maybe he was sitting at the wrong campfire.

Irene Hardisson knew more than she was telling, he could feel it in his gut. It was her he had to talk to.

She sure hadn’t had much to say to him this afternoon!

A grin threatened to crack his dry lips. Man, she had a temper. She was starched stiff as a corset stay!

He shifted in his chair. Even after two whiskeys, his shoulder hurt and his ribs still ached. A soft bed with clean sheets beckoned upstairs—why not wait till morning to talk to the lady lawyer?

Yeah, Clayton, mi amigo. Why not?

Because she smelled good. And she looked soft and frilly and her dark hair shone like firelight licking coals, and…she smelled good. Like a woman.

And because he was hungry for something he couldn’t even begin to name. Someone to talk to. Somewhere to belong.

Just for tonight. Tomorrow he’d head out and try to pick up Fortier’s trail. It made him nervous to stay in one place too long. But tonight…tonight he wished—

“Mr. Black?”

In an instant, the entire table of men rose to their feet. Clayton’s cards slipped from his hand and scattered, most of them faceup. Without turning his head, he knew who it was. In a town like this, men stood up when a lady entered a room.

He stood up, too, removing his hat as he did so, just like his momma had taught him.

“Miss Hardisson.”

“I have come to apologize,” she said in a low voice.

With his left hand, he grasped her elbow and turned her toward the entrance. “You shouldn’t be in here, this is a—”

“I know what it is. A card room.”

“The lady is welcome to stay,” one of the men offered.

“No, thank you,” came her crisp reply. “I came only to speak to Mr. Black about…a certain matter.”

Clayton steered her through the doorway and into the hotel foyer, then turned her to face him. “About Brance Fortier?”

The dark lashes descended, but not before he saw that her eyes looked odd. Uncertain.

“Miss Hardisson,” he prompted. “About Fortier?”

“About poker.” She blurted the words and shut her lips tight.

“What?” he said, louder than he intended.

“Poker,” she repeated. “I want you to teach me how to play poker.”

Clayton released her arm and took a step backward. “Are you crazy? Ladies don’t play poker!”

“Why not? I am skilled at hearts and baccarat. Why not poker?”

He searched for a reply. “It’s…complicated.”

“I am quite intelligent. I want to learn.”

“Well, I’ll be—what the hell for?” His voice came out so loud the drowsing hotel clerk jerked awake. “What the hell for?” he said more softly.

Her face changed. “I have my reasons.”

Clayton frowned. In the space of a few seconds, her expression had gone from hopeful to determined and back to hopeful. It didn’t make any sense.

They looked at each other in silence. “You want—need—something from me,” she said at last. “And I want something from you.”

He knew she didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but his heart leaped anyway. The word “want” on her tongue made his throat go dry.

“And that is?”

“Teach me.”

Under his jeans, Clayton felt his groin tighten. “To play poker,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Why should I?”

“Because,” she said, her voice even, her face studiedly calm, “I can make it worth your while.”

His heartbeat stuttered. She was an innocent, so naive she didn’t know how suggestive her words were, especially to a starving man. He cleared his throat and worked to keep his voice steady. “Just what are you prepared to offer?”

Irene cocked her head. “Information. About Brance Fortier.”

He knew he was gaping at her. Twice he had to remind himself to close his mouth. Disappointment that her bargaining chip was limited to information warred with curiosity about what she knew.

“It’s a deal.”

“Very well. Shall we commence here, in the hotel?”

“Too public, you bein’ a lady and all. You live in town, I reckon. How about your place?”

“That would not be at all proper, I’m afraid. We would have no chaperon.”

Chaperon! She talks about making it worth my while and then… Right. She’s offering information. Just information.

“What about your law office?”

She considered his suggestion, then nodded. “I’ll fetch a pot of coffee.”

“I’ll bring a deck of cards.” And all the restraint I can muster. Damn, but she looked pretty when she smiled. Didn’t do it very often, but it was like the sun in summer when she did.

She turned away and stepped daintily toward the hotel entrance, then pivoted toward him. “I’ve been waiting for this for years, Mr. Black. I know I’m going to enjoy it!”

Clayton groaned and watched her ruffled backside sway down the hotel steps and up the street.

Hell’s fireballs! He couldn’t have resisted following her if he was made out of solid granite and welded to the floor!

Chapter Three

Irene unlocked the door to her office and set the coffee tray from the Maybud Hotel on the table just inside the entrance while she lit the single kerosene lamp. In the soft glow of light she whisked her desk clear of her appointment calendar and the stack of work in her hatbox, then retrieved the enamelware pot. Advancing to set the tray on her desk, a thought struck her.

Her mother would spin in her grave at the prospect of entertaining a man late at night, unchaperoned, without a single thought to propriety! And Nora—she’d best not think about what Nora would say. Why, oh why had she suggested it?

Because you are restless and lonely. She needed to do something, keep busy. And when he’d mentioned poker…

She couldn’t abide knitting, or needlework of any kind for that matter. It gave her a terrible headache. But she did love games. Learning a new one would give her something to do, something to think about besides how much she missed Papa. In fact, she thought with an inward smile, were he acquainted with the circumstances, her father would surely advise her to seize the opportunity!

She released a long sigh. Papa always was a very practical man.

Clayton stepped through the open door, noiseless as a cat. “Good evening, Miss Hardisson.” He removed his wide-brimmed gray hat and hung it on the peg just inside the door.

Irene sank onto her desk chair. Then she straightened her spine and sent a sideways glance at him as he folded his long body into the chair across from her. He held her gaze, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Quelling the tiny flutter in her belly, she leaned toward him. “Would you,” she said in a voice not quite her own, “please explain the rules of the game?”

Clayton leaned back against the oak chair frame and studied the young woman across from him. She’d brought a whole pot of hot coffee from the hotel dining room, and he appreciated that. But the rest of it didn’t make much sense.

She looked too citified to be sitting here in an Oregon frontier law office, even one with whitewashed walls and lace curtains at the window. She spoke and moved like a lady—an educated lady at that—but as he explained the game of five-card draw poker, she looked more and more like a little girl reveling in wide-eyed fascination over a new toy. Her eyes sparkled as he described the suits, the various hands and their relative value, how to deal and bet and call.

Most surprising of all, the lady lawyer who had all the answers this afternoon said not one word. She just listened with that intent look of concentration on her face, the cherries on her hat bobbing when she nodded. She never asked a question. She never asked him to repeat anything. Most of it must be over her head, and he was amused and not a little admiring of her focus on the complicated game.

At the conclusion of his instructions, she smiled up at him. “Do let’s play a round!”

“Play a hand,” he corrected.

“Very well, a hand, then. May we?” She laced her fingers together under her chin and Clayton had to chuckle. She looked like a hungry urchin eyeing a pan of hot biscuits. This was more than interesting—it was unbelievable!

He tried not to smile at her delight. “Deal the cards,” he ordered.

She shuffled the deck awkwardly, presented them for cutting, and dealt out five cards each. “What shall we use for betting?”

Clayton blinked. Ladies didn’t gamble. Somehow he figured she’d prefer to play without betting. On the other hand, nothing much would surprise him at this point. He was already nonplussed by a thing or two about this particular lady. With a jolt he realized he had forgotten he was playing for information about Brance Fortier. Bets it would be.

“We could use matches,” she suggested.

“Don’t have enough.”

She raised her eyes to his. “What about dried beans?”

“Don’t know many lawyers who keep a stash of dried beans around. You got some?”

“Well, no. I’ve been taking my meals at the hotel until my stove is delivered.”

“Not beans, then, it looks like.”

“There must be something we could bet!”

He liked the way she didn’t give up on an idea right away. She had a most unladylike amount of grit, and he liked that, too. In fact, he mused as he watched her eyes widen at the cards in her hand, he found himself downright content in her company. He hadn’t felt comfortable around a woman since…

The warning bell went off in his head just as she looked up. Take one fine-looking female and stir in a healthy dose of interest and you’ve got trouble. Big trouble. The kind he swore never to risk again.

He had to get this over with and get out of here. If her mind was so set on playing poker, he’d use that to his advantage.

“This might seem a little unusual, ma’am, but once we had a Mexican foreman and an Indian wrangler on the ranch. They were usually on opposite sides in the skirmishes the Mexicans and the Comanches got into in Texas, so when they played cards, they bet ‘truths.”’

“Truths? How do you mean?”

“We called it Truth Poker.”

Her eyes lit up. “You mean the winner could ask a question and the loser had to answer it?”

“Yep. You can see why bets never got very high.”

She leaned across the desk. “But it sounds like such fun! Perhaps we could do the same?”

Clayton regarded her with satisfaction. “You serious?”

“Of course I’m serious! Hardissons do not mince words when it comes to the truth—it’s an immutable constant in a world of turmoil and change. It is an obligation of honor to seek it out. Truth,” she reiterated, “is sacred!”

She straightened her shoulders. He watched the soft green dress pull over her breasts. She looked straight into his eyes and Clayton felt his gut tighten. Her dress was the exact shade of her eyes, a clear, sea green with startling flecks of amber.

“Truth,” he enunciated carefully over a throat gone dry, “is relative.”

Her head came up. “Truth is what is true.” The cherries waved like miniature boats on a stormy ocean.

“Either way, ma’am, it’s a matter of honor. If we agree to this kind of bet, neither of us can lie.”

“Of course not!” she agreed with a smart little nod of her head. “That’s what will make it interesting. Your move, I believe?”

All at once Clayton thought of a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this. It was one thing for Luis and White Owl to barter information. As a matter of fact it made the bunkhouse card games unbeatable entertainment—you never knew what you were going to hear.

But what the hell was he doing, gambling with his secrets? Sweat gathered at the base of his neck, and not because of the oppressive heat in the small room. For another, more disturbing reason.

The night air hung heavy and still, as if waiting for something. A thundershower, maybe. Through the door she’d purposely propped open he smelled the dust, the faint scent of sagebrush, smoke from some strolling ranch hand’s hand-rolled cigarette. If he had the sense God gave an ant, he’d call a halt to the poker lesson and walk this lady safely back to her residence.

Without conscious thought, his lips opened. “I’ll take one card.”

She slapped it down and he glanced at it, suppressing a smile. He needn’t worry. It would be over soon. He’d win this hand easily. In fact, she was so green he’d win every game and that prospect caught his interest. He’d worm out of her what she was hiding about Fortier in three hands. Four at the most.

“I’ll bet one question.” He watched her face.

She was obviously pretty smart. He wanted to see what she’d do when she lost her wager and he began to probe.

What occurred to him next sent a current of excitement through his brain.

Under the guise of the poker game, he could ask her anything he wanted, find out her secrets. That intrigued him almost as much as Fortier’s whereabouts.

Again the warning whisper in his brain. If you weren’t curious about her in the first place, you wouldn’t give two figs who won the game.

But he was curious. Interested. Drawn to her, even.

All of it. Clayton sighed as she peeled two cards off the top of the deck and slid them into her hand. Her eyelids flicked down, then up. “Call.”

He laid his cards faceup on the desk. “Two pair, kings and jacks.”

“Full home,” she replied in a matter-of-fact voice. “Three queens and a pair of fives.”

Clayton stared at the cards. “Full house,” he mumbled. “Hellfire, a full house!”

“Excuse me, yes—a full house.” She glowed with triumph, her cheeks rosy, her green eyes dancing.

“And now, for my question.” The smile she sent him made his head spin.

“Yeah?” It was all he could think of to say.

The lady with the cherries on her hat cocked her head. “Tell me, then, Mr. Black. What exactly are you hiding about Brance Fortier?”

Clayton jerked. “Why do you think I’m hiding something?”

“I just do. I sense it. When you talked about him this afternoon, you stared at the floor. Only the floor. Yet when you spoke of other things, you looked directly at me.”

“I did, did I?”

“You did.”

“You’re pretty observant,” he grumbled.

“I am extremely observant, yes,” she agreed, her voice low. “And you owe me a truthful answer. What really happened in Texas that you should come all the way to Oregon to settle it?”

Lord, he was trapped. Hoisted in his own net. He closed his eyes.

He didn’t know whether he could tell her. He was honor-bound to speak the truth, but he wasn’t sure he could get the words out. Wasn’t sure he could live with himself if he heard his voice say out loud what had really occurred.

“Mr. Black?” she reminded. “A pledge is a pledge. I’m waiting.”

“You bring any whiskey for the coffee?”

Her eyes grew round. “No.”

Clayton groaned.

“But I could get some,” she added quickly. “From the establishment across the street.”

“Forget it. I don’t want you going into a saloon. I’ll do without it.”

She waited. Over the sound of their breathing in the soft night air came the scrape of crickets and a tinny piano playing an old song he used to like. “Lorena.”

All at once he couldn’t breathe. He’d have to speak of it, maybe not tell all of it, but enough to satisfy the game of honor he’d so foolishly started. God in heaven, he prayed. He wasn’t sure he could do even that much.

“Okay, Miss Hardisson. Listen up.”

The penetrating green eyes traveled over him as if he were a bug caught under a magnifying glass. He resisted the urge to stand up and smooth back his hair for inspection.

Irene focused her attention on the cords that stood out on Clayton Black’s tanned neck. She had him now. But for some reason her feeling of triumph faded as she watched him lick his lips over and over. Whatever he had kept hidden, it was hard for him to speak of.

Suddenly she was sorry she had asked that particular question. His obvious pain made her throat ache.

“Pa—my father—was Josh Black. A Ranger, like me. Last spring he tracked some of Juan Cortina’s old gang over the border into Louisiana, and I went with him. Turned out my mother’s half brother was one of them. We caught up with him at my mother’s place near New Orleans.”

Clayton angled his body away from her, spoke with his face turned toward the window. “We split up to make the capture, and Dad moved off a ways to draw Fortier’s fire away from me. When he yelled for me to move in, Fortier spun around and shot him. I—”

He stopped and pressed his lips into a straight line. “I should have gotten a bullet into the bastard, but I wasn’t fast enough.”

His long fingers closed into fists. “I tried to get to Dad, but Fortier came toward me and then my kid sister ran out of the house. Fortier grabbed her and put a revolver to the back of her neck. Jannie kept looking at me, kind of smiling, even though I could see she was scared. ‘You’ll do the right thing, Clay,’ she said.”

A horrible sense of foreboding settled over Irene. She reached out one hand to stop him.

“Fortier saw me coming and he put a bullet into me to stop me. Just missed killing me. Then he dragged Jannie off behind the stable and…” He sucked in a harsh breath.

Irene pressed her fist against her mouth. No more. She could not stand to hear more.

“By the time I reached her, he’d shot her, too.”

“Oh, I am so sorry,” she whispered. “So sorry to have asked you to speak of it. I beg your forgiveness, Mr. Black.”

He leveled his gaze on her, his gray eyes unfathomable. “Luck of the draw, I guess.”

She racked her brain for what to say. “I—of course you would prefer not to play any more poker.”

His lips formed a one-sided smile. “Who says so? Can’t say I enjoyed losing the first hand, but the game’s not over, Miss Hardisson. Not by a long shot. You owe me a chance to recoup my loss, so to speak.”

“Oh. Well, I…” She shuffled the cards to hide her confusion. She definitely did not wish to admit her part in freeing Fortier. But if what Clayton Black said was true, if Brance Fortier was a murderer…She didn’t know what to do.

On the other hand, she would like to find out all she could about the enigmatic man sitting across from her. One way to do that was to win another hand of poker. But could she really do that?

Of course she could! It was a simple matter of keeping her head and hiding her feelings. Goodness knows, after twenty-five years in straitlaced Philadelphia society, she was an expert at that!

Clayton cut the deck and she dealt another hand, gathered up her cards and suppressed a gasp. Ace, king, queen of diamonds. Quickly she discarded the two unrelated cards. She needed a jack and a ten, and she put all her concentration on those numbers.

Clayton grunted. “I’ll hold.”

She pressed two cards facedown on the desk, then set the deck aside and peeked at her hand.

Nothing. Not even two of a kind. She’d have to bluff. She could feel his eyes studying her, and she tried to keep her face expressionless. “I bet one question.”

“Raise you one.”

“You mean if I win, I may ask two questions?”

“That’s right. And if you fold—”

“Oh, I won’t fold,” she said with an assurance she did not feel. Desperately she hoped he would be taken in by her pretense and would toss in his cards first. That way, she need never show her worthless hand and she would win another—no, two—more questions. It was worth a try.

“Meet my bet or fold,” he instructed.

“Very well.” It occurred to her that he might be bluffing as well. She hoped so. That way she might save face. She watched as he laid his cards faceup on the barrel.

“Pair of kings,” he said in a low voice.

“Oh. I—well, I…” With a sigh she laid down her cards. “You win.”

“Damn right,” he drawled. “Now you get to give me some answers.”

Chapter Four

Irene flinched. She looked up into Clayton Black’s hard, steady gaze and her heart gave a little skip. Such cool, calculating eyes, and that knowing expression, as if he could see into her thoughts. She steeled herself to admit as little as possible but still forfeit the “truth” he’d won.

Clayton’s lips opened. “Okay, here’s my first question. Why are you unmarried?”

“What?” The breath caught in her lungs. She expected him to ask about Fortier, not her.

“You heard me. I figure you’re about twenty-five. If I remember correctly, most society ladies back East have a brood of younguns by that age. How come you don’t?”

“I’m twenty-six,” she said quickly. “I’ve been…busy.”

“Busy,” he repeated. “Busy being a lawyer instead of a woman, is that it?” He sat back, considering. “Sorry, but I don’t buy that. Nobody with a functioning blood supply is that busy. Now, you owe me the truth, so let’s hear it.”

Irene bit her lower lip. What insolence! He had no right to ask such a thing. No man with any manners would pose such a question.

“Don’t you want to know about Brance For—”

“Nope. At least not yet. I figure I’ve got plenty of time for that.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

You lost the bet, a voice reminded. Now you must pay up.

“Oh, all right,” she blurted. “My mother died when I was four, and I resolved I would never…entertain any gentlemen callers. I made a promise on her grave to devote my life to taking care of Papa.”

His eyes flickered, then softened. “How’d she die?”

Irene swallowed. “She was out riding. The horse refused a jump and threw her. Her neck was broken.” She drew in a breath to steady her nerves. “Why would you want to know such a thing?”

Clayton gave her a long, assessing look. “Don’t know, exactly. Just wonder what a pretty woman’s doing in a little picture-book town like Crazy Creek. Why she’d come out West to be a lawyer. It isn’t for money, I knew that right off. Your dress and that hat say you don’t need money. So why?”

Irene opened her mouth, then closed it. “I assume that is your second question?”

He nodded.

She thought for a moment. True, she did not need money. But she did need…something. Freedom, maybe. A new start in life. Something. However, she wasn’t about to admit this to Clayton Black. No sirree. He would laugh at her.

But, she reminded herself, she had to answer truthfully. He had done so, at some expense; it was a matter of honor.