Gold Dust (12 page)

“Would you mind if I make a fourth?”

The room around them grew quiet. The gentlemen at the table were not the only ones taking her measure. Katy felt Jonah’s presence
at her back, reassuring and yet disconcerting as well.

“This game is for money, ma’am, not for entertainment. The stakes are high.”

Katy managed a confident smile. “That’s the only kind of game I play, gentlemen.”

The smiler looked to the others at the table for approval. One nodded. The other shrugged.

“We’d be honored, ma’am.” All three stood. One pulled out the empty chair.

Katy settled herself therein as gracefully, she hoped, as a true sophisticated gambling lady might do. “I appreciate your
sociability, gentlemen. This”—she patted the hand that Jonah laid on her shoulder—“is my… uh… friend, Mr. Armstrong.”

“Ah,” the smiler said, his expression friendly but cautious. “Would you like to join the game also, sir?”

“Not me,” Jonah denied amiably. “My game’s whiskey, not cards.”

Katy tactfully pried Jonah’s hand from her shoulder, where it rested with proprietary firmness. “That’s true,” she simpered
to the other players. “I’m afraid poor Jonah doesn’t know a jack from a queen.” She couldn’t resist the little private dig.
She might be dressed like a lady, but she was, after all, still Katy O’Connell. “Why don’t you just go up to the bar where
you can watch, Jonah.” She gave his hand a surreptitious pinch. He gave her shoulder a hard squeeze that could have been mistaken
for affection by the other players.

“Whatever you say, my dear.”

As Jonah retreated to the bar, the smiler followed him with a contemptuous look that men reserve for their brothers who don’t
quite measure up to manly standards of conduct. Katy was suddenly eager to put the gentleman in his place. “Shall we play?”
she said.

“By all means, ma’am. I’m Caleb Johnson. This here”—he indicated the mousy little man on his right—“is Terrence Gobel, and
on my left is Strather Williams.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I’m Kathleen O’Connell. You can call me Katy.”

“Honored, ma’am. Would you take the deal?”

“Certainly.”

She dealt a game of five-card stud, deuces wild. A very
tame game to begin. She lost. That was all right. Win at the beginning and she would scare off the players.

The deal went to the old man. Katy lost with a pair of tens. She won a small pot in the third hand with three jacks, then
couldn’t get above a single pair and lost two more. Each hand made her more disgusted with herself. A run of bad cards didn’t
mean she had to lose. Bluff and intimidation were her strong suits, along with reading the other players’ faces to decide
when to bet and when to fold without undue loss. Obviously her mind wasn’t on the game. She was losing money—Jonah’s money—hand
over foot, letting three mediocre poker players make her look like an amateur.

She won a pot, then lost two more. So far she’d lost four times what she’d won. Jonah’s eyes burned the back of her neck.
Doubtless he thought her an overblown braggart and was even now plotting ways to take her losses out of her hide. That damned
kiss was what was doing this to her, Katy decided. It had muddled her mind and dulled her senses. Or maybe it had sharpened
her senses, for her body was still alive with strange feelings, her stomach all fluttery and nervous, her brain fuzzy. She
had only herself to blame for her condition, Katy bemoaned silently. What had possessed her to do such a harebrained thing?
She didn’t go around kissing men. When Gil Eversham had caught her behind his pa’s livery in Willow Bend and tried to kiss
her, she’d decked him but good. Whenever her pa kissed Olivia, Katy still got embarrassed and turned away. Her pa didn’t just
peck Olivia on the cheek like most husbands kissed their wives; he always took his time and made a very thorough job of it.
Katy had never said so, because she didn’t want to hurt her parents’ feelings, but she had always thought it was a bit disgusting.

So why had she acted upon that silly impulse to kiss Jonah? And why hadn’t she pulled away immediately when he latched onto
her like a suckerfish? Of course, Jonah Armstrong was a good deal better looking than any suckerfish, and
staying in his arms had just seemed sort of natural. Warm and secure. Spine-tingling. Exhilarating, even.

“Royal flush.” Terrence Gobel spread his cards on the table with a satisfied grin. Katy experienced her own flush, but not
the royal kind. She should have known the man had a good hand; it was written all over his mousy face. She had only a pair
of nines. Why had she bet? If she’d been paying attention, she wouldn’t have.

Dismayed, she looked at her dwindling bankroll—only twenty dollars left. Jonah must think she was an idiot. She was surprised
he hadn’t descended upon her and irately plucked her from the game. The other players must have seen her distress, because
Caleb Johnson, who seemed to be the leader of the pack, offered in a condescending voice: “I think we should lower the ante
a bit for Miss O’Connell, gentlemen. Don’t you agree? After all, the privilege of having such a beautiful lady at our table
should be worth something.”

That was it! They were treating her as though she were some sort of know-nothing empty-headed female who couldn’t tell a spade
from a club. Jonah Armstrong no doubt thought so too, the damned greenhorn! He should have known better than to distract her
before a poker game. She should have known better as well, but how was she to know that an experimental kiss would turn into
such a mind-numbing disaster?

“I don’t need any special privileges, gentlemen,” Katy said smoothly. “I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of your kind courtesy.”

The swollen-headed, puffed-up, blowhards. Let them enjoy their little victories while they could, because the game was going
to change as of now, Katy vowed to herself. She would concentrate on winning, because if she lost, she wouldn’t get to the
Klondike, and neither would Jonah Armstrong.

“Are you sure, Miss O’Connell?” Terrence Gobel asked solicitously. “We wouldn’t want to cause you any distress.”

“Call me Katy, and don’t bother yourself about distress. I can dish it out as well as take it, gents. Be warned.”

They laughed politely, and Caleb dealt a hand of five-card draw.

Katy lost that hand, but the loss didn’t bother her. Not much money went with it, because she knew when to fold. She was in
the swing again; she could feel it. She won the next hand with two pairs—queens and fives—and the next with three aces. The
gentlemen were condescendingly happy for her. Strather Williams won the next hand with a straight. He should have won the
next as well with three treys, but Katy bluffed him on two pair.

In the next hour the gentlemen’s smiles grew thin, their courtesy strained. Katy willed the cards to come to her. In the past,
her pa, when he was tired of losing to her, had often accused her of using Blackfoot magic to make the cards fall her way.
Sometimes she believed she could really do magic, and now was one of those times. She willed the cards to come, and they came.
And when they didn’t, she knew when to bluff and when to hold.

At the end of an hour, Terrence Gobel threw in his cards and announced he’d had enough pummeling for one night’s play. A slick-looking
fellow with a Southern accent grabbed his chair before anyone else could sit down.

“I would be delighted to relieve this beautiful lady of her burden of excess funds,” he announced in lazy drawl. “With your
permission, ma’am, gentlemen.”

Williams and Johnson nodded curtly. Katy smiled. Another goat eager to be milked.

An audience had gathered, and there were plenty of men eager to play. Katy found herself the target for admiring stares and
hoots of encouragement. When Caleb Johnson bowed out, a fight ensued as to who would take his place. The fracas was quickly
broken up by other spectators eager to watch the play continue.

At the start of the second hour, Katy had a run of bad cards.
It slowed her momentum, but didn’t stop it. She knew the cards would fall her way again—felt it in her bones. And they did.

White-bearded Strather Williams, the only one of the original players who hadn’t given up his place to someone else, prodded
Katy with a half-mocking question. “Little lady, if you weren’t so pretty, I’d have to say you were cheating to have such
a run of luck.”

She had skill, not luck, and being pretty had absolutely nothing to do with it. Katy gave him a smile that was every bit as
condescending as the ones he’d given her at the beginning of play. “I never cheat, sir. I’m simply good.”

“You’re
very
good.” Too good, his tone implied.

“My father’s Irish,” she explained, trying to keep the tone light. “That must explain it. The Irish are very lucky, you know.”

She started to gather in the pot she had just won, but Williams put his hand on her arm. “I’ve not seen anyone, Irish or not,
have as much luck as you.”

A small rumble began in the onlookers and started to swell. Katy didn’t know if the protest was objection to Williams’s implied
accusation or support of it. She just might be in a bit of trouble.

Jonah’s voice broke in, silencing the rumble. “I’m surprised at you, sir, questioning the lady’s integrity. You seemed willing
enough to win from her at the beginning. Seems those willing to take ought to be equally willing to give.”

Katy closed her eyes and wished she’d left Jonah at the hotel. She uttered a silent prayer that he would let her handle this.

“What are you two?” Williams asked with narrowed eyes. “Do you send her into the game to take honest men off guard? What man
can watch for dealing under the table or thumbing back an ace when he’s watching that.” His pale gaze swept contemptuously
over Katy’s body.

Katy clung to her composure and reminded herself she was
posing as a sophisticated lady. Getting the old goat in a throat lock or yanking his white hair from its roots was probably
not something a lady would do. “You are no gentleman, Mr. Williams,” she said primly. “What’s worse, you’re a very poor loser.
I believe the game is at an end.”

Protests rose from those of the onlookers who had hoped for a chance to end her run of luck.

“Blame Mr. Williams,” Katy told them. “Not me.” She gathered in her recent winnings and added them to the heap she had already
stuffed into her large reticule.

“Nobody cheats me,” Williams said nastily. “Especially some whore who thinks all she has to do is bat her eyelashes and—”

“That’s enough.” Jonah’s command rang with a quiet steel Katy had never heard in his voice before. He had taken a gun from
his coat and pointed it in the general direction of the troublemaker. A gun? Katy thought with frantic dismay. More like a
gunmetal-colored peashooter. The weapon was scarcely bigger than the palm of his hand. Most of the men in this room could
have swallowed it whole for a snack.

“What kind of shit-assed con is this?” Williams asked.

“No shit-assed con at all,” Jonah said coolly. “The lady’s game is honest. I’m just here to help her collect her honest debts.”

The crowd began to rumble again, not from protest, but from the sheer enjoyment of the prospect of a fight. Katy had a sudden
vision of Jonah and his silly little gun lying on the carpet, Jonah’s face caved in from Williams’s fist.

“Let’s leave, Jonah.”

“Don’t move!” Jonah warned Williams as he started to get up.

“Let’s go!” She grabbed the hand that didn’t hold the gun and tugged Jonah along with her. The fool was enjoying his show
too much. One could push a man like Williams just so far before getting down to business. It would be a shame if
she had to spoil this pretty red dress to come to Jonah’s rescue.

“Another time, gentlemen,” she said to her gallery just before they ducked out of the tent. “And next time, Mr. Williams,
if you can’t afford to lose, don’t play.”

Since both establishments that passed for hotels in Skaguay were full, Katy erected a temporary shelter for them just off
the beach in the woods, a locale almost as populous as the town itself. Potential gold kings were living in everything from
packing boxes to canvas sheets hung over a tree branch to bona fide tents. Katy went far enough back in the trees to give
them some privacy and showed Jonah how to quickly set up a little shelter of saplings, branches, and brush. He caught on fast,
for a tenderfoot, and she was able to entrust the task to him while she sought the privacy of a thicket to change out of the
uncomfortable boned corset and the red dress. The trousers and flannel shirt that lay wrinkled in her valise tempted her,
but she donned the skirt she’d worn on the train, along with a clean gingham blouse and deerhide vest her grandmother Squirrel
Woman had made for her one of the summers she and Ellen had lived on the reservation. Katy wasn’t quite ready to give up her
role as a lady. Not that the role fit her. Nothing was further from what she really was. But she was too old to be dressing
in britches, or so Olivia had been telling her for the last five years.

When Katy returned to their campsite, the shelter was nearly done. Having someone tall to spread the spruce branches over
the top of the structure was handy. But Jonah’s quick aptitude didn’t earn him forgiveness for his stupid stunt in the saloon.
He was going to get them both killed if he insisted on being a part of the fabled Old West instead of just writing about it.

“I have a few words to say to you,” she warned him. “You chuckleheaded idiot! What was the idea behind that stupid littie
peashooter? Don’t you know better than to draw a gun when you don’t know how to use it?”

“I know how to use it,” he insisted. “I covered Cuba’s rebellion against Spain in ‘95. Learned to shoot there. And I picked
up this handy little pistol in Seattle.”

“Can you hit the side of a barn?” Katy asked scornfully.

“Yes, as a matter of fact.”

“When you’re aiming at it?”

“May I remind you that I saved you from getting robbed of your winnings—our winnings? I don’t see what you’re in such a knot
about.”