Gambler's Tempting Kisses Read online

  Dillon thought for a moment, looking away when he saw Jackson lunging toward Noah Scott. “I believe he is. We passed his studio on Delaware.”

  Gripping the photograph, Charity stood up to speak above the ruckus. “All right, that’s enough,” she declared as she glowered at the panting men. She braced herself when the ceramic pitcher from the washstand crashed against the doorway, narrowly missing Jackson Blue’s head. Mr. Rumley managed to pin Papa’s arms behind him, and the other two men were doggedly clutching at the laughing Indian. “We’ll let the photographer settle this first thing tomorrow morning,” she continued loudly. “He can tell us how many women posed with Mr. Powers.”

  Papa scowled. “How can you even think your mother would’ve lied about—”

  “And how can you start swinging at the least provocation?” she countered. “You’re behaving like a bully behind a schoolhouse—all of you are. And we haven’t settled a thing.”

  The men stopped their struggling to glance sheepishly at her, gasping for their breath.

  Charity’s remark made Dillon chuckle to himself as he got to his feet. “I think Miss Scott makes an excellent point,” he said as he looked at Noah and the other men. “Jackson’s impression of the woman in question is so far removed from the Reverend’s that a third party should be consulted.” Glancing at the slender redhead beside him, he asked, “Didn’t you tell me that night at the Queen that you’ve never met your Aunt Magnolia?”

  Charity nodded, feeling very uneasy at the direction Dillon’s questions were taking.

  “And Noah, how many times have you seen your wife’s twin? Was she at your wedding, perhaps?”

  Reverend Scott straightened the earpiece of his spectacles before putting them on again. “I’ve never actually seen Magnolia,” he mumbled, “because she was attending a private finishing school when Marcella and I married. My wife talked about her constantly, though—cherished a photograph that was taken on their sixteenth birthday—so there’s no doubt in my—”

  “Your wife’s twin sister wasn’t at your wedding?” Jackson Blue interrupted with a sneer. “Seems to me—”

  “We eloped,” Noah said in a low, pointed voice, “and none of this changes the fact that Marcella is missing.”

  Aware of a strange tightness in the preacher’s responses, which he suspected came from stretching the truth over some widening holes in his story, Dillon quickly changed the subject. “I certainly hope Mr. Henry can shed new light on this situation,” he said with a shake of his head. He looked at the shattered glass and cards and money scattered all over the floor and cleared his throat. “Well gentlemen, shall we claim what we each chipped into the kitty and start a fresh game, say, tomorrow afternoon?”

  Clark, Goldstein, and Rumley glanced at each other as though they didn’t like the suggestion, but they picked up their money, and after nodding at Charity and her father, they left the room. Jackson hung his tomahawk at his side, and with a sly wink at her, he said, “I haven’t had this much fun with church people in years. I hope Mr. Henry tells you what you came to hear, sweetheart, but I wouldn’t bet any money on it.”

  Papa stepped toward him with a disgusted grunt, so Charity took his arm until the Indian had disappeared down the stairway. “Let’s help Mr. Devereau clean up this mess and then get some sleep,” she suggested, although she knew the questions raised these past few minutes would keep her awake long into the night.

  Her father glanced at the shambles around them and unbuttoned his shirt collar. “I’m having a tub and some hot water brought up. Why don’t you and Mr. Devereau relax out on the balcony until I’m finished bathing? It’s right outside our window, you know,” he added pointedly.

  Charity resented the way he’d ignored her suggestion and so openly distrusted Dillon, but she didn’t feel up to arguing. When she was outside, seated next to Dillon on the wicker settee, she was so confused and exhausted she let out a sigh that sounded completely overwhelmed. Why did she sense everyone else knew something she didn’t, unless . . .

  Noting that Scott was giving directions to the boy who was carrying the bathtub, Dillon wrapped her hand in his. “I’m sorry things have taken such a nasty turn,” he murmured. “When I brought Jackson over, I intended for him to help rather than to start a brawl.”

  “Papa took the first swing,” she replied quietly. Dillon’s hand felt warm and comforting, and his moonlit smile was so sincere she decided to air her doubts politely rather than challenge him with them. “You know Erroll Powers, don’t you?”

  It was unfair—and senseless—to deceive her any longer. “Yes, Charity, I knew him a good many years ago. But I had no idea he’s settled in Leavenworth, until you showed me that picture.”

  Nodding, Charity laid the photograph on the wicker table beside them. “Is he the scoundrel Mr. Blue claims he is?”

  “Sounds to me like he hasn’t changed a bit.” Seeing her worried expression, he gently lifted her chin. “That’s one reason I want to see this thing to its conclusion, Charity. Hopefully without your father getting himself killed.”

  Looking into his deep golden eyes, Charity cleared her throat. “There must be more to it, Mr. Devereau. You can’t stand Papa, and you can’t be all that interested in me.”

  “Ah, but I am,” he replied with a tweak of her nose. “Let’s just say I have a score to settle with Mr. Powers. And after the way you and your father came bursting in on my poker game, I owe you for the favor.”

  “What? How could tearing up your room be a favor?” She searched his shadowy face for signs that he was teasing her, but saw only an earnest expression and hair that glowed like a halo in the moonlight.

  “Those men—Rumley and Goldstein and Clark? They heard I was in town, and they were hoping to win back several thousand dollars they lost to me last time we played,” he explained with a grin. “They were cheating me blind—all three of them—so by disrupting the game, you actually saved me from going temporarily bankrupt.”

  Charity’s mouth dropped open. “That’s disgusting! How could you not lose, with three men ganging up on you?”

  Devereau chuckled and hoped she would respect his next confession for the confidence it was. “Well, I wasn’t doing so badly, really—thanks to Jackson. He could see their hands as he walked around with his flute, and he signaled what cards they held by playing certain rhythms and songs. It’s a system we haven’t used for years, but it still works quite nicely.”

  “You were cheating, too? Dillon, that’s the most—”

  Laughing, he placed his hands on Charity’s shoulders to keep her from springing out of the settee. Her face radiated shock, yet she looked vibrant and far prettier than she had all day. “I never cheat except in self-defense, honey. These days, a square game is so hard to come by we professionals have to rely on a few tricks to stay in business.”

  “You’re not smart enough to win fairly?”

  “It takes brains and luck and hours of practice to win consistently, Charity. Not to mention a pair of very sensitive hands,” Dillon replied. “I take pride in my gaming skills—you can ask Abe Littleton how honest I am. I won the Crystal Queen from him a few years ago, in a poker game where I could’ve had his house and other properties as well. But I insisted he quit.”

  “You could’ve had Voletta beating you over the head with her parasol, too.” The image made Charity laugh, and as Dillon’s words sank in, she believed there could indeed be honor among card sharps. And there was no arguing about his sensitive hands ...his touch was wonderfully soothing as he massaged her tired shoulders. He was gazing steadily at her, and for all she knew the Planters Hotel and Leavenworth and everything but the starry night around them had disappeared. “Dillon,” she whispered, “I never intended to be such a bother to you. But what if it’s Mama who went with Mr.—”

  “Shhh . . . we’ll deal with that situation tomorrow.” Her hair was gloriously soft between his fingers, and as Charity looked into his eyes, he regretted wasting so much
moonlight on conversation. He lowered his lips to hers, gently at first, until he felt her returning the ardent kiss he’d wanted to share with her all day.

  Charity slipped her arms around his neck, oblivious to everything except the sweet warmth of Dillon Devereau’s mouth. For all she knew, the photographer would answer the questions that burned inside her heart and thereby take away this handsome gambler’s reason for staying with her. His tongue danced with hers, deepening until she heard herself giggling low in her throat, and heard Dillon’s subtle laughter in reply.

  “I’m finished bathing, daughter. You should come to bed now.”

  Charity jumped away from Dillon’s embrace just as her father’s face appeared at the window. She stood up, and with an apologetic smile at Dillon she hurried toward the balcony door. “Yes, Papa. I’m coming.”

  Chapter 6

  When Dillon saw that they were only two doors away from E. E. Henry’s studio, he motioned Charity and her father aside, out of the way of the shoppers who were strolling along the sidewalks. It was a beautiful June morning, and he was determined not to let Noah Scott’s temper ruin what might be his final hours with the redhead beside him.

  “Let’s go over the plan once more,” Devereau said in a low voice. “I’ll do the talking, so Mr. Henry won’t mince words. And no matter what we learn about Marcella, there won’t be any outbursts. I refuse to pay for any more damaged property. Understood?”

  Charity nodded and glanced at her father. Despite the fact that his blackened eye was now open and losing its ghoulish coloring, he looked tired and irritable. And he was clearly reluctant to let Dillon Devereau handle a matter he considered personal.

  “All right, all right,” Scott muttered. Let’s get this over with.”

  With what he hoped was an encouraging smile, Dillon took Charity’s elbow and escorted them to the studio’s door. She seemed a little nervous, yet he sensed she’d analyzed the contradictory facts about her mother’s disappearance and had prepared herself for whatever story Mr. Henry might tell them.

  A bell tinkled when he swung the door open, and a stout, congenial-looking man came out of the back room. “How may I help you folks this morning?” he asked in a deep voice.

  Charity liked him immediately and wished they were here on more pleasant business. Mr. Henry had numerous photographs displayed upon his walls, and she decided they’d be a good diversion if the conversation became too embarrassing.

  Dillon pulled the photograph of Marcella, Magnolia, and Powers from inside his coat and handed it to Mr. Henry. “We were hoping you could help us identify the women in this picture,” he said, “and if possible, we’d like to know their whereabouts.”

  The photographer stroked his dark beard and chuckled softly. “I remember this one, all right. A rather unusual request—a prank, in fact.” He glanced up, his expression still friendly yet warier. “What would you like to know?”

  Sensing the man was protecting Erroll Powers’s reputation when he had three strangers in his studio, Dillon shrugged. “They—or she—seem to have disappeared. It’s rather urgent that we find her, and we’d appreciate any help you can offer.”

  Charity saw Mr. Henry’s eyes widen slightly when he got a good look at her, so she turned toward the gallery on the wall. Back at the hotel, they’d agreed it was best for Dillon not to mention her relationship to the women in the picture, but her resemblance to Mama was too obvious to be ignored. Papa was wiping his spectacles furiously with his handkerchief, and she hoped a lens wouldn’t pop out from the pressure he was applying to them.

  Mr. Henry cleared his throat. “As you seem to have guessed, Mr.—?”

  “Devereau. Dillon Devereau, from Kansas City.”

  The photographer nodded, pointing to Erroll and the woman standing next to him. “This was the original photograph, of Mr. Powers and Maggie. Shortly after it was taken, she came back and requested this particular printing using two negatives at once. For a practical joke, she said.”

  Noting that Charity was directing her father’s attention to a large portrait across the room, Dillon continued. “So these women are one and the same? Maggie Powers?”

  “Maggie Wallace,” Henry corrected with a quick wink. “A fetching woman—quite photogenic, don’t you think? But Mr. Powers isn’t easily snared.”

  Dillon nearly choked on the irony of that statement, but he put aside his personal interests to finish his questioning before Mr. Henry grew suspicious. “So when was this taken? Do you recall?”

  Pursing his lips, Mr. Henry thought for a moment. “It’s been a number of years. Let me check my files.”

  The photographer disappeared into the back room, whistling under his breath. One look at Charity’s pale face told Devereau she’d heard every word and was already piecing the puzzle together. The way Noah clenched and unclenched his fists was a sure sign this inquiry should be finished quickly. Dillon was about to ask if they’d rather wait outside, when Mr. Henry returned to the front counter carrying two square glass negatives.

  “This shot of Maggie and Erroll is dated 1869,” he said, pointing to the numerals etched near the bottom of the plate.

  “Nine years ago. How about this one where she’s sitting down?”

  “The year before, as I recall. Yes,” he said as he tapped the date on the glass. “And when she asked if the two images could be printed without looking patched together, and I explained how I would blend the background and soften any obvious lines as I printed it, she was delighted. Always demands the best and pays well for it, Maggie does.”

  That explained his suspicions about the pose when Charity had first shown it to him. Devereau had heard more than enough, and he knew Noah was about to explode, but as he retrieved the photograph from the counter, Charity came up beside him. She seemed amazingly calm as she studied first one negative then the other.

  “Do you remember if this earlier likeness was taken for any particular reason?” she asked in a tight voice. She could feel Mr. Henry studying her, so she looked him straight in the eye.

  “As I recall, she originally came to Leavenworth hoping to hitch in with a wagon train,” he replied carefully. “She put this picture in the store windows around town, hoping to find a sponsor, and Mr. Powers took her under his wing. You certainly resemble—”

  “She’s my aunt,” Charity replied quickly. She was too hurt and confused to consider all the possible reasons for Mama’s deception right now, but she was determined to learn all Mr. Henry could tell her.

  “Maggie’s an adventurous lady,” the photographer continued with an admiring chuckle. “And judging from the difference in her clothing from the first photo to the next, I’d say she did very well for herself by keeping Erroll company rather than heading west. Couldn’t rightly say where she’d be now, though. Sorry.”

  Charity let out a long sigh. She was only nine when Mama had sent her the photograph; she’d cherished it because she remembered Mama’s simple dark skirt and white blouse, and had gazed wistfully at Aunt Maggie’s fashionable gown. And now it seemed the two women were one and the same . . . a practical joke, indeed. She steeled herself for the answer to one last question. Pointing to a large photograph of a buckskinned Indian who held a rifle in one hand and a shaggy buffalo head under his other arm, she asked, “Is there any truth to the story about that man carrying Maggie off on his horse?”

  Mr. Henry laughed out loud. “I introduced her to Jackson Blue because he escorted wagon trains when he wasn’t hunting buffalo, and the next thing I knew they were galloping down Delaware on Satan—that’s his stallion—and he threw her into the river. Maggie must’ve insulted him somehow, but not so badly that he didn’t jump in after her. That escapade made them the talk of the town for weeks, because we all thought Blue was after an auburn scalp for his collection.”

  “That’s quite a story,” Dillon said when he saw that Noah Scott’s face was turning crimson. “But if you can’t tell us where Maggie might be, we’d better not take an
y more of your time. Thanks for your help, though.”

  He steered Charity and her father toward the door, and as the bell tinkled, he heard Mr. Henry call out, “Good luck finding her. If she’s with Powers, she might be anywhere in the state of Kansas.”

  The door was barely shut before Reverend Scott cut loose. His face was a contorted red mask with a purple eye, and Dillon hoped he wouldn’t kick in Mr. Henry’s plate glass window. “Leavenworth must be a town full of liars,” he yelled. “If you expect me to believe—”

  “Why should Mr. Henry lie?” Charity challenged under her breath. People were staring at them, and she’d suffered all the humiliation she could handle for one day. “It’s not like we had to drag the information from him. And he had no way of knowing who we really were.”

  “Daughter, you know full well that your mother’s been convalescing with Maggie and Erroll for the past—”

  “That’s what her letters say,” Charity countered with the strongest voice she could muster. “Everyone in town seems to know her, and none of their stories coincide with—”

  “Enough of your disrespectful speculations, Charity. Your mother was a devout Christian who would never stoop to such—”

  “But Mr. Henry told us—”

  “Idle gossip. There must be another woman who resembles Marcella, and I’m not leaving town till I find her,” Noah declared. He gripped his lapels and paced in a tight circle. “I’ll start at the newspaper office—find an obituary, or the story about that savage riding off with her. Your mother would never behave like the jezebel Henry described. She had no reason to.”

  He stalked across the street, kicking up a dusty wake. Charity watched him until he reached the Bulletin office, determined not to cry while Dillon was with her. A few minutes in a photographer’s studio had brought her mother back to life, but they had also turned the past ten years into a charade—a deception so cunning Charity couldn’t begin to unravel all the minute details Mama had woven into her stories about Aunt Maggie over the years. While she and Papa had assumed Magnolia Powers was the indefatigable nurse described so lovingly in Mama’s letters, she was actually the mistress of a wealthy, handsome man—and she was Charity’s own mother! What had happened to Mama’s twin sister in the meantime? And what sort of scandalous acts had Mama and Jackson Blue engaged in?