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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.
