11. Chapter 11
Chapter 11
“ H ow do you mean you didn’t get it?” Emily paced the length of her room—whole five steps—throwing Will an annoyed look every time she turned. “Then what were you doing?”
“I got the device, and the almonite barrel is already in the making. It should be ready tomorrow afternoon.”
Well, that at least gave her some time to rest. Her butt was already starting to hurt.
“Okay. But what about the pendant? She didn’t want to give it to you?”
Will flushed. “I, uh, didn’t ask.”
“See, here’s the problem, Gramps.” She sat next to him on the bed. “If my way doesn’t work, and your way doesn’t work, then what do we do?” She squinted and drew closer to his cheek. “Is that paint?”
Will quickly rubbed it off. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“The way you’re acting, one would think you want more opportunities to be alone with her. ”
He flushed deeper, and Emily’s pulse quickened, the name running through her mind. No, nope, not a chance. She’d seen a Sylvia Winters somewhere else, not in her family tree.
Please, not the family tree.
“I have also been considering what you said,” Will resumed. “About Ross and him possibly knowing. If he does and it’s in his interest to obtain the pendant, then it’s certainly better we get it first. However, he won’t know that.”
“You mean he’ll still come looking for Sylvia.”
He nodded.
“Well, I’d like to see him try,” she said. “James may not be what we expected him to be, but he showed up today looking like a freaking gunslinger. I’m talking belts, bullets, a gun on each hip.”
“Have you not noticed most men in town being equipped in such a manner? And the collection of pistols yesterday at dinner?”
“That just strengthens my point.” She stood, wincing at the small protest of her butt muscles. “Ross may be criminal enough to stab one poor man, but I bet he won’t dare to show up his ass in a town that has more guns than people. So, I say we try again tomorrow. We’ll visit Sylvia together. You just give me the night to think of something to tell her.”
“What about now?”
“Right now”—she stretched her arms wide—“I need some rest. Riding is exhausting.”
Will nodded and got off the bed, nursing a mysterious smile.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.” At the door, he looked over his shoulder. “I believe Lady Ross is resting, too. ”
Emily grunted and threw a pillow in his direction, but he’d already closed the door.
Emily didn’t catch any sleep, but she eventually got hungry and made her way to the main room of the saloon. Luckily for her, it was Molly’s shift at the bar, and James was nowhere to be seen. She wasn’t yet sure how to face him. He’d noticed something wrong the second time she’d stopped time, but that would be easy enough to explain—magic trick? He lost consciousness for a second? No, that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was what he was about to do a second before she stopped time. And what she was totally going to let him do.
Good thing they were leaving tomorrow.
Molly brought her some stew from the kitchen, and Emily sat down at a corner table. The saloon was filling up, and a table over, a group of men gathered to play poker. With the tone-deaf pianist absent tonight, it was the most entertaining thing Emily could watch, and her glances didn’t go unnoticed for long.
“Say, missy.” One of the men turned to her. “You wanna join us?”
Emily’s spoon fell into the bowl. “At cards?”
“We got room for one more,” another man added.
Emily looked around. They were in a public place—the publicest of them all in this town—so she didn’t feel particularly endangered by the proposition. Besides, it was her last night here. And she hadn’t seen a single duel.
“Oh, what the hell.” She joined the table, accompanied by loud cheering. “What are we playing for? ”
“Just chips, unless you wanna go serious. But I warn you, Old Johnny over there’s got a temper.” A man who first invited her gestured to his friend, who was neither old nor did he look particularly volatile.
“Just chips then,” she agreed. “Hit it, boys!”
Half an hour later, Emily had a decent stack of chips and a glass of drink, emptied for the second time, in front of her. She was also having the time of her life.
“There’s one thing I don’t get, though.” She waved her cards in the air, then quickly hid them. “Why do y’all call this place Richling Creek? I thought it was gonna be … richer.”
“That’s the joke,” answered one of the men, Frank. “It’s all because of Gibsy.”
Gibsy, who sat across from Emily, raised a hand in a combined ‘That’s me’ and ‘Guilty’ gesture.
The play circled to Emily; before her, the bet had been raised. And she had stinky cards this round. “Fold. So, what happened?”
“Well, ol’ Gibsy had the aspiration of finding some silver ‘round these parts back when the silver rush spread ten years ago,” Frank, the next one after her, explained and called the bet. “And he did. He found it just fine.”
The others laughed.
“See, he saw a teeny little nugget in the creek one day,” Frank continued.
“I thought I was gonna be a rich man.” Gibsy shook his head.
“And? Did someone steal it?” Emily asked.
“It weren’t no silver. At least not from the mountain,” Frank said. “It was his own tooth, fallen out. Sure, there was a bit of silver in there, but no silver Gibsy didn’t already own. ”
The table erupted in laughter. Gibsy laughed too, then opened his mouth wide to show the gap to Emily.
At the end of the game, the player to the right of Emily scooped up his chips. “That’s it for tonight, boys. Bowing out.”
The goodbyes had barely been said when the chair screeched again. “Mind if you join you, fellas?”
Emily started at the silky, warm voice and looked straight into James’ clear blue eyes.
“And lady,” he added.
“I—uh—I should—”
“I hope the boys haven’t scared you. Johnny, you haven’t been telling her those stories about elk riding?” James glanced at his colleague, then whispered to Emily, “You don’t want to know.”
If she withdrew now, he’d know it was because of him. Worse—he might even think he had an effect on her.
“No worries. I’m staying,” she said when she found her voice again. “Actually, boys, why don’t we shift this around and make me the big blind? If you don’t mind putting a chip in right away, Jimmy. ”
James smiled and plopped a chip on the table.
Two rounds later, Emily was trying hard to contain her smile. She’d gotten two heart cards, and another two were on the table. She didn’t much like the eight of diamonds sitting there, but she only needed one more heart …
“It’s getting quite exciting, isn’t it,” James murmured. Unlike some of the other players, he hadn’t even attempted a poker face. He frowned, then laughed, then worriedly scratched his chin, then smiled as she raised the bet. Maybe that was his version of a poker face .
Emily told herself it wasn’t his taunting—she was raising her bet because she had good cards. And perhaps also because she was on her third drink and didn’t particularly care what the cards even were anymore.
Then five of hearts fell. Wait, that was good. She had hearts. “Raise!” With a swagger, she pushed more chips on the table.
One folded, then another, and by the last round, it was just her, James, and Frank.
“Raise,” James said, staring her deeply— mmm, probably not deeply, what were other words? —in the eyes.
So obviously, she raised, too.
Frank folded.
“Showdown,” someone said. Heh. Funny. Like in a duel.
Emily shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. Right. She was about to win this thing.
“Ladies first.” James made a sweeping motion with his hand.
Emily put her cards on the table and removed the diamond and the club cards.
A few men around the table whistled. “Your turn, Jimmy,” one said.
With a lazy flick of his finger, as if he was savoring the feeling, James put down one card. Eight of spades. Not that impressive. The table held their breath. James put down the other card. Clubs. Five. Emily’s mind swam as she tried to do the calculations.
James leaned back in his chair, clearly satisfied.
“He’s got Full House. Jimmy wins.”
In the mix of cheers, sighs, and murmured congratulations, James looked at Emily with a sympathetic little smile. “Sorry, sweetie. I don’t suppose you’ll want to go another one? ”
He ran his hand through his coppery locks. Emily’s heavily fumigated blood rebelled. He’s not getting away like that.
She slapped what chips she had left on the table. “Oh, it’s on.”
Emily woke up with her head heavy and pounding. Everything hurt. She moved an arm; it hurt. She tried lifting a leg; it hurt. The sound of her breathing hurt her ears.
She rolled over in bed and hit something hard. She yelled, then cringed as the shout hurt her as well.
That other thing shifted slightly.
She blinked several times, clearing the pain off her forehead enough to focus on what she was seeing. An arm lay on the pillow. And a head. Reddish-brown hair. A bit of a neck. A shoulder blade …
Emily shot up, yelped as her head protested against the sudden movement, then looked again. She slowly peeled off the sheet, revealing inches and inches of more skin.
No. No no, no.
She scampered off the bed, tangling her foot in the sheet, and fell on the floor, butt first. The pain blinded her vision for a second. When it cleared, and Emily forced herself to her feet, she tiptoed around to inspect her visitor from the other side. She caught the side of his face, half-swallowed by the pillow, and yelped.
Why was James in her bed? She carefully lifted the sheet a bit more, peeking with one eye. The smooth line of his spine continued, unhindered by clothes, into a set of nicely rounded buttocks.
Why was James naked in her bed ?
Think. But, oh, thinking hurt. Dinner. Stew. Poker night. Drink, lots of it. James. Won the game. No, lost … she had a vague memory of the game ending and coming back to bed. Alone. She had been alone, right?
She was wearing a nightgown—a simple cotton one she’d bought with Sylvia in Boston. Her other clothes were in a heap on the chair. James’ clothes, however, lead in a neat trail from the door to the bed. Brown denim pants. Another pair, white, long. A blue shirt. Red bandana. The belt … all strewn across the floor.
An army of thousands knocked on the door. Emily’s head nearly exploded. Keep it down. No words came out of her mouth, though.
“Emily? Are you awake?” Will’s voice.
Emily tasted the air, trying to figure out how to speak.
“It’s almost eleven,” Will added.
Then, another voice. Female. So grating to the ears. Sylvia .
No, no. Go away. Emily wobbled to the washstand in the corner. A small bowl next to it still contained a glass or two of water. A helpful thought wiggled through the messy labyrinth of Emily’s brain. Be quiet. They’ll go away. Get a hang of yourself first, then you’ll solve this problem.
A face wash sounded really nice right now. She reached for the bowl, but her coordination was off. The bowl clanged to the floor, the water spraying Emily’s bare feet. Nice, cold.
“Emily? What was that?”
No, no. Quiet. Emily bent down to retrieve the bowl. As she rose, her head banged straight into the porcelain tub of the washstand.
The pain split her skull apart. She screamed, no more in her mind—loud, piercing, and only making the pain worse .
“Emily? Emily!” The door came down with a bang. Emily turned, waiting for the tears in her eyes to clear. Little by little, the pain—at least the one from banging her head—cleared, and the voices filtered through.
Will and Sylvia were at the room’s entrance. Sylvia clutched her chest. Will took in the bed, the floor, and then Emily. He gaped like a fish on dry land.
Emily put a hand to her forehead and tried a weak, apologetic smile. “I can explain?”