“Larkspur, surely you’re not going to—”
“Just go on home and put on the coffeepot. This won’t take long.”
“Oh, dear Lord, protect us.” Lilac glared at the youngest of the family. “You, Jonah George Nielsen, are nothing but trouble. Have been since the day you were born.”
Jonah swallowed and nodded, penitence dripping from his eyes. “I know, but this is the end. Just get me out of this, Larkspur, and I promise I’ll never gamble again.”
“We’ve heard that before,” Del said.
Larkspur tucked her arm in Jonah’s and gave a tug. “Let’s get this over with.”
2
As they entered the saloon, Larkspur thought of the two dollars in her reticule. Surely that would be enough to get in the game. She knew she would have to lose some before she could clean the floor with the varmint. That would teach him to come into their little town and destroy some of the boys who should have been men by now.
Cigar smoke cast a silvered haze across the room. The piano player stopped playing when he saw Larkspur but picked up again at the bartender’s barked order.
“Well, well, look who’s here.” Bonnie Belle, the hostess, greeted them. Her look at Larkspur was questioning, but she kept her smile in place. “Welcome.”
“Thank you. I just came to see what Jonah has been raving about.” Lark patted his arm and batted her eyes.
Demure, simpering, and with her smile sweeter than sugar and her voice the low contralto of a siren, she let Jonah lead her to the card table where a fine-looking gentleman, puffing his cigar, rocked his chair back on two legs.
“Hey, boy, you brought a lady in here. What will your mama say?” the man teased.
Larkspur held her handkerchief up to her nose. “I’m just curious as to what Jonah finds so fascinating here. Do you mind if I sit and watch?”
If only Deacon Wiesel could see her now. That thought lent wings to her charade. At least she might prompt some justice in one place today.
“Ah, sweet lady, house rules say that observers can’t sit at the table. Players only. You ever played poker before?” The stranger’s dark eyes studied her through the smoke ring he blew.
She nodded. “Jonah has been trying to teach us. It’s a good parlor game during the winter.”
“Well, you just sit down and make yourself at home.” The stranger glanced around the table. “Anyone else want to play awhile longer?”
Larkspur nodded for Jonah to pull out her chair. She smiled at the other players.
The visiting gentleman had the manners to stand and remove the cigar from his mouth. “Jonah, would you introduce me to this lovely lady?”
“I, um . . .” Jonah gave a jerky nod. “Miss Nielsen, I’d like you to meet Mr. Ringwald.”
“My friends call me Slate,” the stranger added.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ringwald.” Larkspur tipped her head and cast him a gracious smile. Considering the situation, she wasn’t sure she wanted him to know her name, but manners were manners.
“So.” Ringwald sat back down and rubbed his hands together. “Who else still wants to play?”
Jonah’s best friend, Bernie, closed his eyes as if in prayer. He had been in and out of the Nielsen house ever since the boys started school. “Not at all,” he murmured. After all, she’d taught him the game too. He glanced up at the dealer as if asking permission, since he’d just lost his last dime.
An old guy who’d given up sometime earlier tossed a couple of dollars in front of Bernie. “You can pay me back.”
Larkspur studied the gambler from under her eyelashes as she fumbled in her reticule, seeming to search for her money. A black cutaway coat of fine wool, pleated white shirt with cuff links at the wrist, a ring that held a rather obtrusive shimmery stone. Not a working man by any means, at least not at what she would call working.
“Ah, there.” She carefully smoothed out the two dollars she laid on the table, then looked up with a timid smile.
“That’ll get you started,” Ringwald said before looking around. “Anyone else?”
“Come on, Art, you still got some cash in those deep pockets of yours.” Bonnie Belle patted the top of Mr. Holt’s bald head. “Just play a hand or two, give these young sprouts a chance to learn from a master.”
Mr. Holt wagged his head. “Ah, why not?” And pulled his chair back up to the table.
Larkspur smiled sweetly at this friend of her late father’s who was still a good friend to their remaining family. “Good to see you, Mr. Holt.”
“I’m rather surprised to see you here,” he said in a low voice, glancing at Jonah and then back to her.
“And I you.” She tipped her head to the side. “I just wanted to see what Jonah finds so intriguing here.”
“I’m only here tryin’ to keep an eye on him.” Mr. Holt shook his head, keeping his tone low. “Not that I’ve been much good.”
“If no one else wants to join us, let’s begin.” Ringwald shuffled the cards, then ran them again through cupped, manicured hands. Once more, and he set the deck in front of Jonah, who cut the cards and nodded. While Ringwald dealt four cards to each player, Bonnie Belle exchanged the money laid on the table for chips.
“Two card poker. Everybody take a look and make your choices.” The gambler leaned back in his chair and lifted the edges of his cards, examining his hand, then discarding two.
Larkspur watched Ringwald carefully. Far as she could see, he’d not cheated on that hand. Probably figured he didn’t need to. She’d be an easy mark. “Sir, may I ask a question?”
He removed his cigar from the corner of his mouth. “Why, of course, Miss Nielsen. Ask away.”
“That means I can only keep two cards, correct? And I can’t draw any?”
“That’s right, young lady.” His smile showed off a gold tooth.
They went around the table discarding until
