flaring, Cade looked up.
He knew that blend. Its fragrance was melded with his earliest memories. It was forever tied to loneliness and loss…and to questions he’d never been able to find the answers to.
It was the signature blend smoked by Percy Whittier.
Frozen in place, Cade stared blindly at his cards. Could he be this lucky? He’d believed the rumor had been true. He’d believed Whittier was in Morrow Creek; otherwise, Cade wouldn’t have come there, with or without Simon Blackhouse’s aid. But to find Whittier by chance this way, tonight…
It defied the odds laid in by even the most hopeful gambler. And Cade had never been hopeful.
Hope was for people who fooled themselves into forgetting the truth: that life was short, fickle and cruel. More than anyone, Cade knew better than to put his faith in long odds. Doubtless, he told himself as he went on studying his hand, many men smoked that particular Kentucky blend, not just Whittier.
An instant later, a burst of raucous fiddle music restored his usual sense of purpose. What was he doing just sitting there?
Anyone looking at him would have thought Cade didn’t really want to find Whittier. The notion was daft. He might not be hopeful, Cade reminded himself, but he was determined. He’d made promises to Judah. He intended to keep them or die trying.
“I’m out, too.” Heart pounding, Cade made himself stand. He schooled his face in an impassive expression, needing to hide the damnably naive hopefulness he felt. The answers he needed felt tantalizingly close. “Night, all. Good luck, Reverend.”
Startled, the minister glanced up. He couldn’t have known that Cade had already taken pity on his foolish wagering and slipped him an “improving” card when everyone else had been watching their easily defeated companion leave the game. But Cade knew it. He hoped the minister took the boon and quit, too. Otherwise, the way he’d been wagering, he’d lose for sure.
Cade hadn’t wanted to let that happen. Not because the minister was a holy man; Cade didn’t have much use for preaching. But according to their chin-wagging, the widowed minister had a daughter—as it happened, the same mousy woman who’d tossed away her dance card—and Cade hadn’t wanted the man’s family to pay for his witlessness.
Giving the minister that improving card had meant setting back his own game, Cade knew. But he’d had faith he could regain his edge. The hapless holy man didn’t have the same advantage.
The door creaked. Through the slowly narrowing gap in the doorway, Cade glimpsed swirls of dancers, a wisp of smoke…and the profile of a cigar-smoking man. Was it really Whittier?
Cade couldn’t be certain. In Omaha, he’d spooked Whittier with a too-aggressive pursuit. He’d lost him for weeks. Now Cade had to be smarter. Otherwise, he might ruin his advantage.
As far as he knew, Whittier didn’t know Cade was still in pursuit of him. Cade meant to keep it that way…until he caught up altogether.
“Don’t forget our weekly game at the Lorndorff!” one of the men called from behind him. “We can always use one more man.”
“’Specially a losing man!” Another yokel gambler guffawed.
Too intent to argue with their wrongheaded assessment of his skills, Cade raised his hand in acknowledgment of their invitation. It wasn’t quite the wagering offer he needed, but he reckoned it was a start. From here, word of his ability would travel upward to the elite circuit and eventually—he hoped—garner him an invitation to those sought-after tables.
Decisively, Cade slipped into the giddy fray of the Grand Fair. He was almost close enough, he saw, to identify Whittier for certain. With only a faded tintype and his own hazy memory to go on, it was hard to tell. But the smell of the man’s distinctive tobacco blend tantalized Cade with its nearness.
He needed a plan. The moment he saw the minister’s daughter—no longer burdened with overcoats—determinedly on her way to the back room, Cade hit upon one. This time, he would keep his distance from Whittier until the moment was right. This time, he would be smart. This time, he would win.
In the meantime, he had to get a little closer. So…
“There you are!” Smiling, Cade pulled the woman into his arms, keeping Whittier in sight. “You’re missing our dance!”
“Oh no I’m not!” the woman said. “I’d never miss a dance!”
Then, to Cade’s immense relief and improbable good fortune, the woman allowed him to dance them both into the frolicsome melee…straight toward the spot where Cade had last glimpsed his quarry.
This must be what it felt like to fly, Violet thought as the handsome stranger whirled her around the dance floor. Guided by his strong arms and innate dexterity, she nearly laughed.
This was what she’d been wanting all night.
This… and maybe more.
Enchanted, Violet gazed up into the stranger’s arresting face. Clearly, this was the man who’d had all the town’s wallflowers aflutter. Indeed, as she examined his wavy dark hair, piercing blue eyes and impeccably arrayed features, she did feel a bit dizzy. A bit bedazzled. A bit swoony.
He was…perfect.
He delivered her an abashed smile. “Thank you for letting me sweep you away just now. I’m in your debt, Miss…?”
“Benson. Violet Benson.” Beset by her rapidly galloping heartbeat, Violet sucked down a breath. She executed another turn in the dance. This had to be some sort of mistake, but she’d be jiggered if she’d miss this opportunity to kick up her heels. Politely, she asked, “And you are?”
“Cade Foster. I’m very pleased to meet you, Miss Benson.”
Hearing her name on his lips made Violet feel downright light-headed. How did he manage to make her ordinary name sound so extraordinarily intimate? So intriguing? So…wonderful?
On the verge of asking him exactly that question, Violet stopped herself. Instead she blurted, “You’re new in town.”
It was not a smooth entrée to further conversation. But a person would not have guessed as much to look at Cade Foster’s appealing smile—a smile that engaged twin dimples in his cheeks.
“Not anymore.” He tightened his hand on hers, sweeping them both in an elegant arc across the room. “In your company, Miss Benson, I suddenly feel quite welcomed to Morrow Creek.”
Goodness, he was charming. And he was charming her! Awed by the realization, Violet prayed her feet wouldn’t lose all sense of rhythm. She glanced downward. Blessedly, her feet seemed to be keeping up very well…even while the rest of her dithered.
“Well, I have that effect on people,” she confessed. “My friends say I’m a veritable one-woman hospitality committee. Probably owing to all my charity work. You see, I do a great deal of volunteering among the destitute, the sick, the needy—”
“They’re fortunate to have you. As am I, tonight.”
“Oh. Now you’re teasing me.”
“Not at all.” Mr. Foster danced them both near the raffle cage and its attendant cash box. “I’m enjoying you. I think you’re enjoying me, too—at least if your smile is any proof.”
Caught, Violet tried to tamp down her wide, telltale smile. But it was no use. It was simply too delightful to be flirted with this way! Especially by such a dashing man. Also, she couldn’t help noticing that several conversations had quit at the edge of the dance floor. A few dancers had even slowed to gawk. The whole place, it seemed, was fixated on Violet and her gallant dance partner. The sensation was altogether novel.
She, Violet Benson, was the center of attention!
This must be what