Well, she wasn’t going to end up like her mother, and when that temper of hers had made her dump a pan of scrub water on a certain banker, she’d quit or been fired, depending on whose version you believed. Out of work, with no references, those few choices of hers had disappeared like snow in July.
She’d begged, borrowed and even stolen food when she’d had no other choice. It was something she wasn’t proud of but, dammit, she was nothing if not a survivor. She’d slept in stables and alleys and abandoned buildings, always looking for that better way—always refusing to sell her body as so many women did in desperation. After a year, she’d begun to think there was no hope, that she, like her mother, was doomed to a life of subsistence, only to die early and probably be glad for going.
Then one day she’d seen the boys shooting dice on the dock. Intrigued, she’d stood by and watched. It was a simple game and she’d caught on quickly enough. Like a true gambler, she’d wagered her last three cents on a throw of the dice and won. Another throw and another win. Two more and she was up twenty-five cents and grinning ear-to-ear.
She was a natural, they’d told her. After that she was there on that dock every day. It didn’t take her long to figure out that the boys came around because they were intrigued playing against a scrap of a girl who always seemed to win. It got to be like a badge of honor with them, trying to beat her.
But luckily for her, they couldn’t—not most of the time, at least—so they’d challenged her to other games: poker, monte and faro. She learned fast, got cheated a few times in the beginning, but only a few. She’d learned to defend herself. Yes, Clair had learned to fight and to win, to do whatever it took to stay alive.
By the time she was seventeen, she was playing poker in a local saloon and making a living—not a great living, but she was off the streets and had three meals a day.
Over the past eight years. she’d played in saloons and gambling halls all over the West. She played poker and she played fair. Oh, not that she couldn’t have cheated—she could. But she didn’t need to. She was that good. Even if she hadn’t been as good as she was, well, there was a thing called ethics.
Yes, the lady gambler had ethics. She might have had to fight and scratch for everything she got, but she was no liar and no cheat-a matter of pride.
Black nine on the red ten...
Two cowboys wandered in. They stopped dead in their tracks and stared at her as though she were a three-legged heifer.
A nervous flutter moved through her stomach. These days, strangers always gave her an anxious moment until she realized she didn’t know them—that they weren’t the law. “Good evening, gentlemen.” Pulling the cards into a neat stack, she smiled sweetly. “You gentlemen play poker?”
What do you know, they did. So did about a dozen more who filled the Scarlet Lady that night The rain held off and business was good. She was winning. For the first time in months, she was winning. A smile threatened, but she held it back, afraid of jinxing her new found luck.
She just dealt the cards, made small talk and collected her money. Cowboys stayed a few hands, then left. Bill strolled by every so often, paused to watch a hand or two, then ambled away. She figured he was checking on her, and that was fine. She didn’t mind. Occasionally she’d see him at the bar, talking, taking a drink or two with the customers.
“That’s it for me, ma’am,” a young cowboy said. Scraping the remains of his money into his hand, he left.
Bill surprised her when he plopped down in the vacated chair. “Uh, Bill, shouldn’t you be watching the bar?”
“Bar’s fine,” he replied, his bushy brows drawn down almost to one. Before Clair could argue the point, he banged a handful of money on the table—a mix of coins and notes—and an open bottle of whiskey, one-third empty. Judging by his red-eyed appearance, she knew exactly where that missing liquor had gone.
Seeing Bill at the table got everyone’s attention. Men who’d been at the bar and other tables moved in. The four other men seated at Clair’s table scooted forward, eyes wide, giving everyone a closer view of what was about to happen—whatever that was.
Clair coughed slightly as a puff of smoke circled her head like a gray cloud. The pungent scent of several unwashed bodies permeated her nostrils. Apparently some of these boys didn’t adhere to the notion of a weekly bath.
Bill spoke up, his deep voice loud enough for all to hear. “I been watching you all night and I figure
I can beat you now.” His chin came up in a defiant gesture that got him several pats on the back from those who’d lost a little money over the past few hours.
Clair studied him through narrowed eyes. Under any other circumstances she wouldn’t refuse a man so intent on playing, but this was Bill, the owner. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that losing to a woman gambler would make him angry, had made him angry. If he got his tail in a knot, he’d be bound to send her packing just to save face. He might even call the law, claim he was cheated or such. No, this definitely wasn’t a good idea.
“Bill,” she began in what she hoped was a sweet, soothing voice, “I’d rather not play against you.”
Bill obviously got the wrong impression. His grin got Cheshire-cat big and there was another chorus of encouragement from those gathered. Damn, this wasn’t working.
“I got you scared, huh?” Bill announced triumphantly to her and those backing him up. He dropped a fresh deck of cards on the table in front of him and took a swig of that whiskey straight out of the bottle. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here without me winnin’ back some o’ that money you owe me.” He slit the seal and pulled out the cards with a flourish. A quick shuffle and he removed the jokers from the deck.
“You tell her, Bill,” one cowboy said.
“You can win,” another added.
There was a general egging-on all around.
Now, Clair didn’t mind a little heckling, didn’t mind the men watching, but she did object to the implication that she owed him money. “I won that money fair, Bill. I don’t owe you anything.” Clair shoved back her chair, moving about an inch before she rammed into a lanky cowboy who was intent on leaning over her shoulder.
“Do you mind?” she prompted, assuming he’d step back. He didn’t. She felt cornered, trapped, and the first stirrings of unease swirled in her stomach like storm clouds.
“Come on. Come on,” Bill was demanding. “You ain’t backin’ out.” He took another long swig of whiskey from the bottle and put it down with a thud. Liquor trickled out of the corners of his mouth and he wiped his face with the back of his hand.
Muscles clenched along Clair’s bare shoulders. “I’m tired, Bill. How about later? Tomorrow night?” She tried to stand, pushing harder against her chair with the backs of her legs, and this time managing enough room to rise. She reached for her money. “I was just thinking about calling it a night when—”
“Oh, no, you don’t, woman.” Bill grabbed her hand to stop her, his rough fingers clamping tight around her wrist. Fear exploded in her and she jerked free.
“Don’t!” she flared. “I don’t like to be touched.”
Bill rose out of his chair to mirror her stance. “You ain’t gettin’ outta here without dealing them cards.”
Bill was staring at her, and so were eight or ten cowboys—she was in no mood to count Stetsons. Their expressions ranged from daring to smug confidence.
Damn. This wasn’t good. Why the devil wouldn’t the man take no for an answer? By tomorrow he’d be sober, and grateful she’d refused to play him. Sagging down in the chair, she tried again. “Look, Bill, what say we do this tomorrow