into the pot, she stared at her cards and tapped her forefinger against her pursed lips, a sure sign she was bluffing. Dale decided to rein her in, limit her losses. “Call your million.”
“Raise…” Rowena darted him a questioning glance. Dale replied with an imperceptible shake of his head, and to his relief Rowena had the good sense to stop.
With excruciating slowness, like tasting a foul-flavored medicine, Rowena spread her cards on the table. A pair of jacks. Dale revealed his own hand and jotted the entry to the exercise book they used for their score keeping. “You owe me seventeen million four hundred thousand dollars.”
Rowena rolled her eyes. “You’ll bankrupt me yet, you cardsharp.”
Smiling, Dale gathered the deck, passed it over to her. “Your turn to deal.”
Inexpertly, she shuffled the cards, talking at the same time. “I’m surprised the Marshals Service lets you stay in Pinares until the trial. You’re not doing much to earn your pay. It’s not as if I’m a dangerous criminal who needs constant guarding.”
“Marshals don’t get a salary. They get paid a fee for each assignment.” In truth, Dale knew he might be overstepping the boundaries with his visits, but he enjoyed her company. Every afternoon he arrived a little earlier and left a little later. Her feminine presence, her laughter, her beauty and her carefree manner seemed like a summer breeze that dispelled some of the darkness inside him. He was even regaining his sense of humor.
It seemed that for the first time since his genteel world of Southern aristocracy had vanished into cannon fire and flames, he was experiencing the social niceties he’d missed out on. From the age of twelve to eighteen he’d been consumed with tracking down and killing the soldiers who’d murdered Laurel. The next eleven years he’d lived in an outlaw hideout, isolated from the world, surrounded by cruel, coarse men.
When he’d gained a pardon, he could have re-entered the world he’d been born into, the world of ballrooms and parties, of plays and music, of culture and refinement, of money and comfort. However, although a pardon made him an honest man in the eyes of the law, it couldn’t restore his peace of mind. It couldn’t heal the guilt and shame over Laurel’s death. It couldn’t make his scars disappear. It couldn’t keep away the nightmares that forced him to relive the horrors of his past, time and time again.
The legacy of his outlaw years held him back from attempting to rebuild his life as a gentleman, a gentleman of high birth and affluent means. Instead, he had sought some measure of restitution by becoming a federal marshal, a man who upheld the law instead of flouting it.
Because of his past, Dale had never courted a girl. Sure, he’d paid for a whore in his outlaw years. But in the last three years he’d lived celibate. Not because of a moral conversion of some sort, but because he couldn’t tolerate the prospect that when faced with the sight of his scarred body a whore might demand extra payment.
But now, in Rowena’s company, he felt as if he was getting a glimpse into what he’d missed out on, all those parties and balls, the pleasure of a woman’s voice, her laughter. Although Rowena’s gentleness and her impish sense of humor appealed to him, he couldn’t deny there was a carnal element to his fascination. All too often, his eyes strayed to the curve of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the fullness of her mouth, but he possessed enough discipline to keep her from becoming aware of it.
He could see no harm in it, so he allowed the feeling to grow, safe in the knowledge it couldn’t lead to anything. Rowena McKenzie was not the kind a woman a man could trifle with. Perhaps it was curiosity more than anything, a new experience, attraction that was more than just physical. And, to start with, spending his nights racked with unfulfilled desire had seemed preferable to nightmares. As Rowena McKenzie got deeper and deeper under his skin, Dale had begun to doubt the wisdom of that assumption.
“Anyway,” he went on, “I am retiring from the Marshals Service.”
“Retiring? Aren’t you a bit young for a rocking chair on the porch?”
“I’m thirty-two. And I don’t plan to be idle. There is this place, this valley over in California…the prettiest place you ever saw, with a stream running through it… I stumbled upon the property by chance a year ago, when my horse went lame…”
Half resenting the words as they spilled out, he went on nonetheless, telling her of the ranch, of the old man who wished to sell. He told her how he’d saved every penny of his fees and could now just about afford the down payment, with a bank lending the rest.
As he talked, Dale felt a tension coil within him, like the anticipation before a gunfight. He had never shared his dreams with anyone, except perhaps the dream of breaking away from the outlaw life, a dream he’d once shared with his friend Roy Hagan.
When he stopped, emotionally drained, silence fell. Rowena clutched the pack of cards in her hands. “I once knew such a place, too.” Although her tone was wistful, she cast him an odd, speculative look. Dale had noticed it once or twice before, as if she were somehow assessing him, measuring his mettle. And then, with a visible effort to regain the lighthearted mood, Rowena dealt the cards, placing them on the table with an exaggerated flourish.
A pair of tens for him. When Rowena saw her own hand, her face lit up. To keep things simple, they skipped the initial rounds of betting and went straight to replacement cards. She took only one. He asked for three, failed to improve on the pair.
Rowena opened, forefinger tapping at her lips, her attention riveted on the cards. Dale suppressed a sigh. Another bluff. The pot grew until they had fifteen million of imaginary money on the table. Rowena laid down her cards. “Ace high.”
Dale revealed his own hand. “When will you learn that a busted straight is worth nothing?”
“You ought to have folded when I kept raising.”
“Never expect to control what the other players do.” He updated the scorecard. “You owe me thirty-two million and change.” With a rueful smile, he looked up at her. “Cherie, promise me you’ll never gamble with real money.”
She laughed, that light, sunny sound that touched something inside him. He spoke quietly. “Don’t gamble with your life either, Miss Rowena. The judge arrived a few hours ago. He is reviewing his docket today. He’ll hear the criminal cases first, before the civil disputes, and yours is the only one. Your trial will take place tomorrow morning.”
Dale knew he could have revealed the truth by now—that there had been no murder, merely an elaborate charade to facilitate the escape of the two conmen who’d been selling shares in a worthless mining claim—but he also knew that Sheriff Macklin wouldn’t accept his findings without the prisoner’s own testimony.
Every day, the postmaster’s boy came by to tell Miss Rowena there had been no telegram. Dale didn’t know what information the telegram would contain, only that Rowena was determined not to disclose her innocence until it arrived. He hoped she wouldn’t take her obstinacy too far. Judge Williams could be like a bear, easily riled, and the judge’s verdict, however misguided if handed down in a fit of anger, would become the law.
Dale surveyed the packed courtroom. Traveling theater shows were rare and not everybody could read, which added to the value of court hearings as entertainment. Feet shuffled, cigar smoke curled in the air. The stove in the corner radiated heat, raising the temperature in the room. Women fanned their flushed faces and men tugged at their shirt collars, until someone had the good sense to prop the door open and let in a cool draft.
Sheriff Macklin rose to his feet and called out in a formal tone, “The court is in session, the Honorable Judge Williams presiding.”
The crowd hushed into silence. The judge flapped his meaty hand to wave away the preliminaries. Squat like a frog, with a jowly face and florid complexion, his every gesture spoke of impatience. He shuffled his papers. “The