WAGERED WOMAN

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  Contents:

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15

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  Chapter 1

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  "Sam, whatever's eatin' you, I'd like to help." Oggie Jones let out a tired sigh and shifted the cigar he always kept clamped between his teeth to the other side of his mouth. "But it's creeping up on 3:00 a.m. Either spit it out or call it a night."

  Sam Fletcher took a pull off the beer that had been sitting in front of him since closing time, only realizing after he had a mouthful of it that it had grown warm. He scowled, swallowed and pushed the mug away.

  "It's about a woman." Sam said the words so low that if Oggie hadn't been standing less than two feet away, he would never have heard them.

  Oggie leaned closer. "What woman?"

  Sam wasn't quite ready to answer that question yet, so he leaned on the bar and pondered aloud instead, "I'm forty years old."

  "I know how old you are, son."

  "I own a store. I own a house. I own a cabin up at Hidden Paradise Lake—"

  "You done all right for yourself, no one's arguing there."

  "I should be happy."

  "Damn straight."

  "And I am happy."

  "'Course you are."

  "Almost."

  Oggie wiggled his eyebrows again and chewed his cigar but said nothing. One of the jobs of a bartender was to know when to keep his mouth shut, and Oggie Jones had been tending bar for a long, long time. Oggie sensed that he should let Sam proceed at his own pace.

  And Oggie sensed right. If Oggie had rushed him right then, Sam would have clammed up. But Oggie gave him a little time, and Sam put off getting to the point for a few minutes more by staring into the mirror over the bar, studying his beard.

  Once a pause long enough to drive a train through had elapsed, Oggie did just the right thing: he gave a meaningful cough.

  Sam bestirred himself and picked up where he'd left off. "I'm almost happy, Oggie. But not quite…"

  Oggie dared to prompt, "So somethin's missing, is that what you're getting at, son?"

  "Yeah. There's an … empty place in my life."

  Oggie picked up Sam's rejected beer, tossed the last of it down the drain and washed the mug. "So this ain't about a woman, it's about the woman," he sagely suggested.

  Sam leveled his gaze on the old man, impressed at the depth of his perception. "That's right."

  Oggie nodded. "You got it all—now you need someone to spend it for you." Oggie let out a rheumy cackle.

  Sam granted the old codger a wounded frown. "Oggie, this is no joking matter to me."

  "All right, all right. No disrespect intended."

  "Fine. None taken."

  Oggie leaned toward Sam. "So who's the lucky lady? And what's the problem?"

  "The lady is the problem."

  "She's playin' hard to get?"

  "She's playing nothing."

  "Well, then what—?"

  "There is no lady. That's the problem." At last Sam had reached the crux of the matter. "I haven't found her yet."

  Oggie, clearly gratified that at last they were getting somewhere, breathed, "Ah-ha." Then he slid his thumbs under the frayed suspenders that held up his pants and inquired, "Not even a prospect?"

  Sam stared down at the ring on the bar where his beer mug had been. "No. And not because I haven't been looking. I've been dating. Nice women, too."

  "And?"

  Sam shook his head at the ring. "There's nothing there. Zero. I want fire, you know? I can't even raise a spark." He sighed. "Maybe there's just no one out there for me."

  Oggie Jones straightened up at those words. "Don't say that, Sam Fletcher. There's someone out there for everybody."

  "You think so?"

  "I know so."

  Sam smiled. Oggie knew all the bartender's jokes about women, and he was willing to use them just between him and other men. But he believed a man needed the right woman deep down, which was why Sam had decided to go ahead and consult him about this.

  Oggie had been married only once, to Bathsheba Riley, who'd given him three big handsome sons and one spiteful little daughter and then died of a stroke at the young age of thirty-seven. To this day, nearly a quarter of a century later, Oggie would still on occasion wax poetic about "beautiful Bathsheba, the empress of my heart…"

  "Okay then, Oggie," Sam said. "I could use your help."

  "For what?"

  "Finding that woman out there who's right for me."

  Oggie beamed. "You got it, son. What do you want to know?"

  "Oh, suggestions, I guess. Ways to meet women. And the women here in town who might be right for me. It would be good to find the right woman here at home. Someone who loves this town as much as I do and never wants to leave."

  Oggie was cackling again. "This here's North Magdalene, son, in case you ain't noticed. Population 215, er, 219, now that Beatrice Brantley's had those twins, and those two ladies from Oakland moved into the Luntman place over on Pine Street."

  "I realize that. But you know how it is. I think I've thought of everyone who could conceivably be right for me. But maybe I've missed someone. It's always a possibility."

  "Hmm." Oggie considered this, then said, "By my count, there are seven women in town who might remotely be eligible for a serious relationship with a man your age—I'm discounting anyone married, living with a man, under eighteen or over fifty, as well as those two ladies from Oakland I just mentioned. Rumor is they are in love with each other."

  Sam lifted his head. Hope stirred his blood. "Seven? You count seven? I could only come up with six myself. And I've discounted all of them."

  Oggie wrinkled up his nose, as if counting once more to make sure. "Yep," he said at last. "Seven. I count seven."

  "Who?"

  "You want me to name them off?"

  "Yeah, if you don't mind."

  "Hell. Okay." Oggie began, "Alma Santino?"

  "I thought of her. But she's barely twenty. That's way too young for me."

  "Regina Black."

  "Uh-uh. She's nice, but she's so shy. I've tried to strike up conversations with her more than once." Sam shook his head. "It added up to zero. No, Regina is out."

  "Betty Brown."

  "No way. She is one bossy woman."

  "Angie Leslie?"

  "Too flighty. You know she's been divorced three times."

  "Now wait a minute here. Jared's been divorced twice. Jared ain't one bit flighty, and you know it."

  "Well, I'm not thinking about getting involved with Jared," Sam said of Oggie's eldest son, "so I'll make no judgments about him. But Angie Leslie is not for me."

  "All right, all right. So Angie's out."

  "Right."

  "Too bad. She's a fine lookin' woman."

  "No argument there, but looks aren't everything. Where were we?"

  "Er, Cathy Quail. Hey, didn't you take her out last month?"

  "Yeah."

  "And?"

  "Nice woman, no spark."

  "Okay. Chloe Swan."

  Sam shook his head. Everyone knew Chloe would wait until the end of forever for Oggie's second son to pay attention to her. "Chloe's always been in love with Patrick," Sam said. "No, Chloe's not for me. That's the sixth one. Did you miscount?"

  "Hell, no. I said seven, and I meant seven."

  "Then who else?"

  Oggie's crafty smile made Sam a little nervous. Sam understood why when Oggie proudly announced, "Why, my Delilah, a course."

  Sam felt the little ember of hope that had glowed warm in his chest wink out and turn cold. Oggie's venomous only daughter was the last person he'd want to curl up with on a cold winter's night.

  "That's a real hum
orous suggestion, Oggie," he muttered dryly, then went on with a sigh. "So all the local ladies are out. I guess I knew that, but you can't blame a guy for hoping."

  "Wait a minute." Oggie jerked his mangled cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, and stuck it back in. "My Delilah's no worse a prospect than any of the others."

  Sam squinted at his friend and realized he'd hit a nerve by rejecting Delilah out of hand. He'd heard Oggie complain more than once that Delilah should be finding herself a man before she was too old to present her dear old dad with a few grandchildren. But never before had Oggie dared to suggest that Sam might be that man. Of course, Sam had never before confessed he was looking for someone special, either.

  Sam decided to smooth the old man's ruffled feathers before going on. "Okay, Oggie. Objectively speaking, Delilah's…" He hesitated. He wasn't in the habit of trying to think of nice things to say about Delilah Jones. "She's fine, just fine," he said at last. "But she's not the woman for me, and you know it. So let's move along to other ideas."

  Oggie's feathers were not smoothed. "No, let's the hell not," he growled. "Let's think serious about my girl for just a damn minute here. Let's give her a chance."

  Sam decided to try pointing out the obvious. "She hates my guts, Oggie."

  "Now, son. She don't hate you. She despises you. There is a difference."

  "Yeah. If she found me dying in a ditch, she'd step over me instead of finishing me off."

  That gave Oggie pause, but only for a minute, during which he thoughtfully chewed his cigar. Then he spoke confidentially. "Try to see her side of it. She lost her mom when she was only eleven, and after that she got nothing but headaches from her rowdy brothers and me. She swore to better herself, and she did. She went to college. Now she's part of a noble profession; she's a teacher of young minds. She ain't got a lot in common with any of us anymore. She can't help looking down on us lowlifes even if we are her family—and she thinks of you as just another one of my boys, you know that damn well. But she's got a true heart. If the time came when any one of us needed her, you know she'd be right there."

  In spite of his own personal dislike for Delilah Jones, Sam had to admit that Oggie was right. "Yeah, okay, Delilah's loyal and true-hearted to a fault. I know that. But that still doesn't make her right for me. I'm talking about finding someone sweet to come home to. Delilah is about as sweet as a treed bobcat."

  "My girl can be sweet." Oggie's slight wince contradicted his words.

  Sam had had enough. "Oggie, this is pointless. I don't want Delilah, and she damn sure doesn't want me. Let it be."

  Oggie shook his head, looking rueful but determined. "I just plain can't let it be, son. The more I think of it, the more sense it makes."

  Sam realized he was becoming uncomfortable. He didn't like that gleam in Oggie's eyes. The old man was looking downright zealous, all of a sudden. It was spooky.

  Oggie went on, "It's…" He paused, as if grasping for just the right words to explain some unforeseen and marvelous revelation. "By God, Sam, it's like something that's been in front of my nose all the time but too obvious to notice. You're exactly the man my girl needs, and she's just what you need! And you did say you wanted fire. My girl's got fire."

  Sam groaned aloud. "Damn it, Oggie. Face it. I couldn't get along with her. Never in a million years. She'd as soon sic the sheriff on me as look at me."

  Oggie's little raisin eyes were suddenly red with unshed tears. "She's my little girl, after all. And she's the only one of my kids who ain't been married at least once. I'd like to see her happy, settled down with the right man, before I meet her mama in the great beyond."

  "I'm not that man, Oggie." Sam was getting worried. He was beginning to realize that confiding in Oggie hadn't been such a great idea after all. But hell, it had just never occurred to him that Oggie could stretch things so far—that he could delude himself into believing there could ever be anything between his spinster schoolmarm daughter and the man she'd always hated with all her mean little heart.

  "You're like a fourth son to me," Oggie wheedled.

  "Damn it, Oggie…"

  "And you've done yourself proud since you showed up in this town with nothing but a bad attitude and the clothes on your back. Lord, Lord, why didn't I think of this before?"

  "Oggie—"

  "It's perfect. You even got … artistic leanings, what with the jewelry you make and your whittling. That one boyfriend Delilah had way back in college was an artistic type. I think if anyone will ever get a chance with her, he'll have to be artistic."

  "I've heard enough of this." Sam stood up.

  "I ain't through, son."

  "Maybe not. But I am." Sam turned for the double doors.

  "I got a proposition for you, boy!"

  "'Night, Oggie."

  "Get back here."

  But Sam only waved a hand and headed for the doors.

  Oggie was forced to voice his proposal to Sam's retreating back. "The day you and Delilah tie the knot is the day I deed over The Mercantile to you!"

  Sam hesitated when he heard that. The Mercantile was an ancient brick barn of a building adjacent to the bar, which Oggie had bought forty years ago for a song. It was big enough to house Sam's expansion plans for his gold sales store. But it was also promised to Oggie's second son, Patrick, when Oggie died. Or at least, that was the excuse Oggie had given him for not selling it the last time Sam had made an offer.

  "You hear me, Sam Fletcher?"

  Sam heard, and he couldn't help considering. He wanted The Mercantile—and it was true what Oggie had said about Delilah and him. The spark was there, all right. He had to admit that the thought of Oggie's little witch of a daughter didn't leave him with that nothing, empty feeling that all the other women he'd considered inspired. Thoughts of Delilah Jones invariably made his temperature rise. Too bad the heat was caused by animosity rather than desire; he couldn't stand her, and she hated him right back.

  No, he had to face facts. Even with The Mercantile thrown in to sweeten the deal, he and Delilah Jones would never make a go of it. Sam shrugged and pushed through the doors.

  "Got that?" Oggie shouted, as Sam went out into the star-thick night. "You been after me to sell that building for how long now? But I ain't never sellin'. You'll be takin' it for free, Sam Fletcher, the day you make a fulfilled woman of my little girl!"

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  Chapter 2

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  Delilah Jones stood outside the small, weathered building at the north end of town that housed Fletcher Gold Sales and wondered if she should even bother going in. She certainly didn't want to go in. Sam Fletcher owned it, and to her that was reason enough never to step inside the place.

  But she'd agreed to contact all the merchants in town. She just hadn't thought too carefully before volunteering, or she would have realized that there were only six merchants in all of North Magdalene—and two of them were her rascal of a father and that troublemaking wild man who owned Fletcher Gold Sales.

  She'd already acquired pledges from Lily's Café, Santino's BB&V—Barber, Beauty and Variety—North Magdalene Grocery, Swan's Motel and finally The Hole in the Wall Tavern, which her father owned and ran.

  That had been unpleasant, asking her father for a donation. He had cackled and chomped his smelly cigar and wondered aloud, as he always did, if she'd found herself a man yet. The few local yahoos with their bellies already up to the bar at one in the afternoon had chortled right along with him.

  Goodness, how Delilah had longed to be outside again where the clean, spring sun was shining and the mountain lilac was in glorious bloom. Instead, determined to fulfill her obligation, she'd stood there in the stale-smelling dimness, waiting grimly for her father to say yes or no to her request for money toward the renovation of the Community Church's collapsing bell tower.

  At last he'd cracked open the till and handed over several grungy bills. "There you go, gal. That oughtta help."

  "Thank you, Father." She'd stuffed
the bills in the donation envelope, dashed off a receipt and whirled for the exit.

  But Ogden Elijah Jones just couldn't let it go there. Oh, no. He'd had to call after her. "I'm serious as a heart attack about you givin' me some grandkids, gal. In fact, I have taken matters in my own hands. Expect a man to come knockin' on your door one of these days soon. Be ready. You hear?"

  Delilah had kept right on walking. She had not paused in the least, though the rude laughter of the men in the bar followed her out into the light. She'd walked briskly up Main Street

  , putting her father's absurd threats right out of her mind.

  Now, there was only Sam Fletcher left to approach and her obligation to the Bell Tower Committee would be fulfilled. Delilah brushed at her slim skirt and straightened her collar and then pushed open the door to Sam Fletcher's store.

  Overhead, as she entered, a little bell chimed.

  "Be right out!" The deep voice came from beyond a door at the back.

  Delilah said nothing. She was here to beg for money for the church's sake, after all. If she called out, it was just possible Fletcher might recognize her voice and refuse to speak with her. Who could say ahead of time what that wild man might do?

  They hadn't shared two words together in the last ten years that she could recall. Maybe, just maybe, they could manage to be civil with each other now if she handled things right. Nervous, she clutched the donation envelope and receipts and her small handbag, and tried to calm herself by looking around.

  What she saw elicited a tiny gasp of disbelief.

  Beneath the sun that streamed in the spotless many-paned windows, the old wooden floors gave off a smooth, buffed shine. Glass display cases gleamed, filled with a wide variety of gold samples, jewelry and eye-catching souvenirs. Oils and watercolors of wildlife and the disappearing wilderness—the back country of which, in California at least, so little remained—brightened the walls. The rows of shelves stacked with mining gear were scrupulously neat and free of dust.

  There were several excellently carved wooden sculptures: a rearing horse, a bald eagle, a delicate foot-high fawn. Delilah had heard somewhere that Sam Fletcher did beautiful carvings in wood. She wondered if these pieces could possibly be ones he had made himself.