A Gamble for Love, page 1
A Gamble for Love
A Sweet Historical Romance
Emily Murdoch
To my father, Gordon.
You never cease to challenge me, encourage me, and strengthen me.
Thank you for the incredible inspiration you are to so many.
And as ever, Joshua.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter One
Historical Note
About the Author
Acknowledgments
This Sweet Grove series would not exist without the genius that is Melissa Storm. Part writer, part genius, part unicorn, part mother, and part friend. I am not the only author who is indebted to her, and I hope to repay the gamble she has taken on me.
My parents have remained the most fantastic support team: my parents Mary and Gordon, and my brother Haydon. They have never considered my writing career a gamble, and I hope that they do consider it paying off.
To the one who gave me such a love of words: thank you.
Chapter One
The room was either dancing faster than the girls on the saloon stage, or Aaron Bryant was falling.
The heavy thud and the pain that radiated across his left-hand side told him he was falling. Or rather, had fallen. Laughs and guffaws rang out around the room as he moaned and groggily put a hand to his head. His gold silk waistcoat was torn, and the knock to his temple shot pain across his neck.
“Now then, Bryant!” a man shouted amongst the laughter. “If you cannot hold your drink, perhaps you should not be holding your cards neither?”
“You be quiet,” mumbled Aaron as he pushed himself upwards from the wooden floor, sticky with the amount of beer that had slopped over the edges of glasses. “I know what I am doing.”
More laughter rang out from his companions as his slurred words echoed around the room, Aaron not quite sitting, not quite falling into the chair he had just tipped out from. Only one of them did not laugh. Little did they know, he was telling the truth. Aaron Bryant knew exactly what he was doing.
He wasn’t drunk. He hadn’t even touched a drop. Young Melinda behind the bar knew his tricks, and had been pouring what looked, to the naked eye, just the same as the beer his companions were pouring down their throats as if their bellies were on fire.
Not Aaron. His head was clear, his fall an act, his slurred words a trick to ensure he was under-estimated.
It worked like a charm.
“Now,” he said, blinking slightly too slowly as he watched Don opposite him try to hide another chuckle. “I think we were betting on the hand afore us, am I right?”
There were five of them at the table: James Carpenter, a local; Don, a business man of no fixed profession; a stranger that none of them knew who had declined to give his name; and the saloon owner, who was the quiet one. The December wind rattled the windows as they sat at their game, but they paid no attention to the inclement weather. They were playing poker.
“Bryant, you are in no state,” chuckled James on his left, trying to shake his head and point his finger and failing at both. Aaron tried not to scrunch up his nose at the stench of his breath. “You are in no state, and that is a fact!”
“Oh, let him play!” The man who Aaron did not recognize chuckled heartily. “Seems the boy needs to be taught a lesson and my pockets could do with the lining! ‘Tis December, and I want to enter 1843 without owing every tradesman in the place money for Christmas presents!”
Aaron tried not to smile. Fools. Little did they know he was sitting pretty on the best hand of his life – one he never thought he’d ever see. A straight flush. Those five hearts all lined up in a row ended with the King, and he wasn’t going to miss out on the chance to win back all his money on the table – and the rest of it besides.
“I am all in.” Only four words were needed to give Aaron that buzz, and he sighed audibly with relief at it. You only got that high from gambling, and it was the high he sought every night he could find someone willing or stupid enough to play with him. It was his bread and butter, kept him going for one more day, and a day without it . . . well. Was it even worth living through?
“All in?” Don snorted, and the saloon owner raised their eyebrows. “If you want to throw your money away, Aaron – ”
“Do not call me that.” The atmosphere, jovial and cigar-smoke strewn, suddenly grew cold.
Aaron stared at the man whom he had only met but a few hours ago, stared with a glint in his eyes that his companions suddenly saw was sharp and bitter. “Do not call me that, sir,” he said quietly. The saloon had hushed to hear the altercation, and there were some who already considering calling it a night if his infamous temper got loose.
Don raised his hands apologetically. His greying hair was long, and his beard was unkempt, but he recognized anger when he saw it. “No offence meant, Mr Bryant, no offence meant at all.”
The man at the table who Aaron did not know was not so smart. “Aaron seems a perfectly respectable name to me,” he sniffed. “Why d’you hate it?”
Two gentlemen left the bar and walked out of the Lucky Star saloon as Aaron Bryant rose. The candles on the tables flickered, and Melinda sat down slowly on the chair behind the bar, keeping herself out of sight. Aaron was tall; taller than he looked like it was possible to be when he was sitting down, with strength in his arms and broad shoulders. The stranger shrank in his seat.
“My name is Aaron Bryant.” His words were quiet, but there was a resonance in them that made greater men worry they were about to be punished for something they had definitely done. “It was my father’s name, and I inherited all the worst from my Daddy: his name, his temper, and his gambling habit. I cannot get rid of the first, I have failed to get rid of the second, and I have embraced the last like the child I never had. Now. Let’s play.”
He sat down slowly, his pulse throbbing in his ears. That name. He’d never escape it, no matter how far he left Sweet Grove behind. You could be thrown out by your family, and you will never find the peace and comfort that you had. Just the game. Just the next wager. Just the next gamble.
“I am all in,” was the saloon owner’s response. Begrudgingly, everyone else except the stranger pushed their piles of dollars and cents towards the middle of the table.
Aaron glared at him. His blood was pumping again, but due to the gamble now, not his bitterness. He was so close, seconds away to winning the biggest hand of his life. When you live one wager at a time, this wasn’t money: this was a whole week of not worrying about your next meal. “You not in, boy?”
The stranger was young, perhaps twenty, perhaps a little older, with dark hair and dark eyes giving him a focused expression. He glared back for a moment, and then his gaze fell. He blinked.
“I am in, sure,” he muttered, pushing the smaller pile into the table.
Aaron’s heart rate quickened. It was any moment now; the cards would be revealed, and he would walk away with more money than he had ever seen in his life. It would be a mere thirty more seconds, and –
“I have put more in than you, Mr Bryant,” murmured the saloon owner. The saloon went silent. “What else do you have to offer me before we reveal that I am the winner?”
Confidence flowed through him as Aaron replied tersely, “The watch in my pocket, the clothes off my back – my portion of inheritance, if you want it! ‘Tis no good to me, though I will keep it yet. Let’s see these cards.”
Wide eyes looked between the two of them.
“Are you sure you want to do that, Bryant?” Don stared at him, and then at the pile of coins at the center of the table. “That is an awfully big bet.”
Aaron shrugged. His mouth was dry but exhilaration was rushing through him. “I have got an awfully good hand.”
James was the dealer, and he looked around the table fearfully as he said, “Final bets? Show your cards.”
Don had three of a kind, James two pairs. The stranger had little better. Then it came to Aaron’s hand. He could almost hear the angels singing as he revealed the nine, ten, Jack, Queen, and King of hearts.
Whistles rang out around the room. Their game had gathered the interest of the saloon, and even the girls had stopped dancing on the stage.
Aaron didn’t notice. He was high on the thrill of the win, beaming around at the crowd and the table.
“My apologies,” he said to the saloon owner.
Phoebe Vazquez smiled broadly, her auburn hair dropping over her eyes as she leaned forward to lay down . . . her royal flush.
“Oh no, Mr Bryant,” she said sweetly. “Please accept my apologies.”
* * *
A royal flush. You didn’t get much closer to royalty out here in Texas than a hand as beautiful as that, and as Phoebe tried to calm her breathing, she smiled broadly.
“Now,” she said with just a little tone of triumph that she found impossible to hide. “About those clothes on your back?”
The entire room burst into raucous laughter, but she was composed. She had run the Lucky Star saloon for Timothy Masterton long enough to know the tide could turn within a heartbeat, especially against a woman who ran her own business and tried to keep herself safe. Any hint of pride would be railed against. All she had to do was remain calm.
“But – but . . .”
Her opponent was stuttering, his fingers unconsciously running over his linen shirt and silk cravat, untied and lying around his neck.
“But nothing!” Don chortled as he threw back his head in laughter. “You bet your own clothes, your watch – and did you mention an inheritance?”
Phoebe ignored Don and watched Mr Bryant carefully. He had been frequenting her saloon now – what was it, every day for the last two months? He had kept himself to himself, mostly, until he discovered someone who was willing to play cards. Or dice. Or wager on the next person to walk into the Lucky Star saloon. Or the type of hat they wore. Or when Melinda would next drop a glass . . .
A true gambler. She could remember the smile that had grown, unbidden, across her face when she had first clocked him. She had waited for months for a sucker like him to walk through her doors, and it had taken a few weeks of watching him, learning the way he thought, seeing how he played, before she was confident enough to join a game with him.
Last week, she had lost. Yesterday, she had withdrawn before the stakes got too high for her own tastes.
Today, she had won.
“Settle down, boys,” she said, smile still broad. “I am sure Mr Bryant will be more than happy to pay his debt to me.”
James Carpenter sniggered beside her, but she did not take her gaze from Aaron Bryant. He was her ticket to a better life, and she wasn’t going to let him slip through her net.
He opened his mouth, but no words came out. Instead, a croak emerged.
“Well, ma’am, I must be off.” Don rose from the table and bowed his head.
Phoebe inclined her elegant neck and affixed her gaze on her prey once more.
The stranger rose from the table and held out his hand to Mr Bryant, a rueful look on his face. “Bad luck, sir,” he said. The proffered handshake was ignored, but he kept it outstretched. “My name is Weston – Laken Weston. I hope to meet with you again someday.”
Phoebe watched him wait for a few more moments, but Mr Bryant resolutely avoided his eye. Eventually Laken Weston dropped his hand, shook his head sadly, pulled on his greatcoat, and strode out of the Lucky Star saloon. The doors swung behind him.
James coughed and rose also. Soon the table was empty save for the victor and the vanquished.
“You are not gloating.” It was a statement, not a question, and Mr Bryant’s gaze did not stray from hers.
Phoebe shrugged. Her cream gown skimmed her shoulders and creased gently in the movement, the pearls around her neck settled in the nape of her neck. “To gloat is unseemly. I have won the wager, fair and square, and before witnesses. You would be a fool to attempt to leave town without paying it.”
It was hard to keep her breathing regular, but she couldn’t lose her head now. She was so close – so close to getting everything she had waited for and planned . . . for how long? Was it years?
He rose from his seat, coins rolling off the table after he knocked into it in his haste. “You know I cannot pay you the full amount owed,” Mr Bryant said easily, a slick smile now pasted across his face as he avoided her gaze. “I am afraid, Miss Phoebe, that you shall have to wait until I have a better night with the cards before you receive your money.”
Phoebe rose also, and now there were sparks in her look. “And I am afraid, Mr Bryant, that I cannot wait. If you are attempting to renege on our bet, and I think you are, then I will be forced to call on the sheriff to place you where you belong. Behind bars.”
“Behind bars?” Mr Bryant spat as he moved around the now empty saloon restlessly, like a caged animal. The floorboards creaked under his weight, and he pushed a table over, glasses smashing and candle guttering. “You must be joking!”
“No joke,” she returned, moving behind the bar. The shotgun was hidden there, and though she didn’t think she would need it, you could never be too careful when you ran a saloon. “Nothing like. You gambled on that hand, and you have lost. Now it is time to pay what you owe.”
For a moment, he stared at her as though attempting to read her thoughts – but Phoebe Vazquez had not run the Lucky Star saloon for three years for nothing. There was a steely glint underneath those auburn lashes, and she didn’t flinch or blink as he tried to stare her down.
He looked away first.
“You know I cannot pay you,” he said hoarsely. “You cannot think to leave me completely stark naked, without a cent to my name, wandering around the town like a maniac!”
Phoebe smiled and curled her fingers around the top of the chair behind the bar. “I know. Which is why I have an offer to make that you cannot refuse.”
His brows furrowed, and Mr Bryant stared at her from across the table. “An offer I cannot refuse?”
Her smile broadened but she could not remove her nerves. Was she to fall at the last hurdle?
“I think so,” said Phoebe lightly. “All you need to do to avoid the prison cell is take me to your family. I am sure they will be able to pay the full amount. And I will not press charges.”
He threw back his head in disgust. “That is blackmail!”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “It is.”
Aaron Bryant breathed harshly. “Sweet Grove? You want me to take you to Sweet Grove and see my family – to ask my family for money?”
She almost didn’t notice the tightening of his jaw, or the look of terror. Almost. But not quite. “If Sweet Grove is where your family live, then yes.”
His attention flickered around the room, as though desperately looking for a way out. Phoebe held her breath, her knuckles whitening as she clenched the chair for support. If he said no – if he refused, if she was forced to wait for another fool to gamble on . . .
He cleared his throat. “When are we leaving?”
Chapter Two
Everything hurt. Medleys of pain he didn’t realize it was possible to feel were dancing up and down his spine, and there seemed to be a particularly strong harmony playing in his left temple.
Aaron Bryant opened his eyes. He was lying on the floor of the Lucky Star saloon, shirt stuck to the floorboards and shoulders crying out in discomfort.
Gingerly, trying not to think as his head cleared from the grogginess of sleep, Aaron pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around the room.
It looks as though it had been trashed by a rampaging bull. Chairs were scattered across the floor, there was glass everywhere, and some idiot had clearly stepped in it, as there was a thin trail of blood around the room that led straight –
“Oh, no,” he muttered. Aaron’s head dropped, and he saw his left boot had a deep gash in the bottom, and it was stained blood red.
Head throbbing, he tried to remember what had happened last night. Something had gone wrong. What had he been doing?
The poker table. Faces. Miss Phoebe Vazquez and her ingenious plan to get him right back to where he had started, where his whole life had gone wrong. It all came rushing back to him – as did the memory of the punch that she’d ended up ordering the sheriff to give him after he started destroying the saloon.
“Not my finest hour,” Aaron murmured, putting a gentle finger to his temple and wincing when he felt the swelling and bruising already developing.
“I would say not.”
The voice was harsh, and female, and emitted from the door. Aaron looked up into the face of the woman to whom he owed a King’s ransom.
Phoebe Vazquez. Who would have thought such a beautiful and – he had thought – timid woman would force him to return to his estranged family to pay off a bet?
“You are awake,” she said quietly. “Good. It is time we start thinking about going.”
“Going?” Aaron stared up at her, and it was only then he registered that she was wearing a travelling cloak and sturdy winter boots. “You cannot think about beginning our journey now, at this ungodly hour!”
She raised an eyebrow as she stared at him. “Mr Bryant, it is eleven o’clock in the morning. I hardly think we should wait any longer; the light will be gone in a few hours and we have far to go.”
