The Honour-Bound Gambler

“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.