Читать книгу A Marriage By Chance - Carolyn Davidson - Страница 9

Silver City, Nevada

March, 1894

Three queens and a pair of deuces appeared before him, and Peter Biddleton all but licked his lips as his eyes flickered to the mound of cash in the middle of the table. It was a cinch, he decided. He had bet first on the three ladies, tossing in his other two cards, and watching as the dealer slid two more in his direction. Now he felt the thundering of his heart as the pair dealt him nestled beside the aloof trio of royal blood.

“Reckon I can bet,” he drawled, pushing in his last gold piece, watching as it rested against several more just like it, there where bits and pieces of cash lured him.

The dark-featured man across the table watched from beneath hooded eyelids, silent as he considered the cards he held. And then he placed them facedown on the table and nudged three gold coins toward the pot. “Got something you’re proud of, sonny?” he asked mildly. “It’ll cost you to stay in.”

Peter aimed a futile glare at the man who spoke. Tall, dressed in the well-worn garb of a cowhand, the stranger had walked with an arrogant stride across the floor of Molly’s Saloon only two hours before. He’d watched for long moments, then joined in the game already in progress. Now his dark, flat gaze focused on his lone opponent, the rest of the men surrounding the table watching with eager eyes the silent battle between the two men.

“That’s the last of my money,” Peter said reluctantly, glancing down again at the full house he was certain was a winner. It felt right. The cards were warm in his hand, the queens looking triumphant, the deuces paired beside them.

“Are you out?” the stranger asked, unmoving except for the lifting of his eyelids as he bent his attention on Peter’s face.

“I’ve got a half interest in a ranch in Wyoming,” Peter blurted. “Worth more than the whole pile,” he muttered, his free hand gesturing at the seductive kitty in the middle of the table.

“Call me or fold.” Lazily spoken, the words were a challenge, one Peter could not ignore.

“I’ll bet the ranch,” he said, making up his mind quickly, before the image of Chloe could force him away from the table and out the saloon door.

“Let’s see your deed.”

“I don’t have it,” Peter admitted. “But I’ll handwrite a letter of ownership.”

“Is there a lawyer in Silver City?” The dark eyes lifted to sort through the gathering crowd.

“I’m a lawyer.” Stout and well dressed, a middle-aged man stepped forward, then directed his attention to Peter. “You sure you want to do this, son?”

Peter nodded, his jaw set, his hands sweating.

“Where’s the ranch?” the lawyer asked, drawing a small notebook from his pocket. His pencil moved quickly across the page as Peter spoke, describing the location and size of the Double B Ranch, his father’s legacy, and then he placed notebook and pencil on the table. “Sign here,” he said, watching as Peter’s trembling fingers grasped the pencil.

Torn from the notebook, the single page fluttered in the air, settling with a whisper of sound atop the pile.

A long index finger nudged the brim of his black hat as the man across the table leaned forward, fanning four jacks across the battered tabletop.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, boy.”