WAGERED WOMAN Page 6

  Friday, a bear cub waited in the next window over from the doe. It was plump and appealing, rolled over on its back batting the air with its paws. She couldn't help it. She smiled when she saw it.

  But then, strangely enough, he failed to materialize by the door to his store when she went to get her mail that afternoon—which was just fine with Delilah; a relief, as a matter of fact.

  Then, Friday night … nothing. He failed to call. Delilah felt great about that. It was just what she'd hoped for, that he'd leave her alone.

  Saturday morning, the same wooden animals greeted her when she peeked through the drawn curtains. But no new ones had joined them.

  That was just terrific, as far as she was concerned.

  That afternoon, after her weekly trip to Grass Valley for groceries, she walked over to Main Street

  as usual to pick up her mail. She ducked into the post office swiftly, sure that his absence yesterday and the lack of a new wooden creature in the window this morning had been only a fluke to make her let down her guard. She just knew that when she emerged, he would be standing there, by the door to his store.

  No such thing happened. He wasn't there when she came out.

  Saturday evening, after dark had come, she sat in her living room easy chair and read a mystery novel. Tonight, there were no papers to correct. Easter week lay before her, and she looked forward to the break.

  Beside her, the phone sat silent. And she was really and truly relieved. She was finally beginning to believe that Sam Fletcher had at last given up. And that was good. That was just what she wanted. She was grateful to have her privacy and peace of mind restored. She was. She really was.

  In fact, now that she thought about it, it all made sense. More than likely, he'd called someone else for a date yesterday. He was probably out with that someone tonight. Taking her to that nice restaurant in Nevada City he'd mentioned, and having a wonderful time.

  And that was great; that was just great. If some other woman wanted to go out with Sam Fletcher, that was okay with her.

  Just then, Delilah realized she'd let her book drop to her lap and she was staring blindly at the far wall. She made a disgruntled little sound, took off her reading glasses and put the book aside. She got up and turned on the television and tried to concentrate on it, though she found her mind still insisted on wandering where it shouldn't go—to thoughts of Sam Fletcher and where he might be tonight…

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Sam hadn't gone out with another woman. He'd gone instead where he knew he shouldn't: to The Hole in the Wall.

  Oggie greeted him with a muttered, "It's about damned time," and a cold mug of Sam's favorite brew. "Drink up," he suggested, before Sam even had time to slide onto a stool. "You look like you need it."

  Sam grunted, sat down, and lifted the mug.

  Oggie leaned on the bar. "Go ahead, son. Tell me all about it."

  "What?"

  "Whatever's got you lookin' discouraged as a woodpecker in a petrified forest."

  "I'm fine, Oggie. Just fine."

  Oggie gave Sam a disbelieving wiggle of his eyebrows and then remarked, "Well, one thing I gotta tell you—you shoulda shaved fifteen years ago. Great balls of fire, if I was a woman, I could go for you myself!"

  Sam saluted the old rapscallion with his beer before draining the last of it. Oggie leaned closer and pitched his voice low and confidential. "By the way, how you doin' with my little girl?"

  Sam set his mug down. "I don't know what you're talking about, Oggie." He pushed the mug toward the other man. "How about a refill?"

  Oggie poured out another draft and slid it to Sam. "C'mon. Don't tell me you ain't been givin' my offer some thought. Julio Santino tells me his boy Marty says—"

  "Marty's a real self-starter. If he's got a flaw, it's too much imagination."

  "Marty's a good, honest kid," Oggie argued.

  "I didn't say he wasn't honest."

  "Good. So let me tell you what Julio says—"

  "If it's true, I already know it, and if it's a lie, I don't want to hear it."

  "Sheesh." Oggie shook his head. "You're as testy as Brendan tonight."

  Sam looked around. "Brendan's here?"

  Oggie tipped his head toward the heavy green curtain at one end of the room. Beyond it was the poker table. "He and Amy had words, from what I could pull out of him. He showed up here a half hour ago, ordered a double whiskey and bought a pack of smokes. Now, if he's lucky, he won't go and lose his shirt to those two slick out-of-towners in there before he gets up the courage to go home. Which is where he oughtta be right now, if anybody asked me. He's a rotten rascal for fightin' with that sweet girl."

  "It takes two to make a fight, you know, Oggie," Sam pointed out reasonably.

  "It don't matter. That little girl is carrying my grand-baby… And don't go thinkin' I don't know what you're doing, son. I'm old but not that old. I know when a subject's been changed on me."

  "What are you talking about, Oggie?"

  Oggie grunted. "Good enough. Keep your own council about you and Delilah. For tonight. Just don't you forget this is North Magdalene, son. Secrets around these parts got all the stayin' power of a frozen daiquiri in hell."

  Sam knew the wisest thing to do right now would be to set his mug down and leave. He felt edgy and antsy, the way he used to feel in the old days just before doing something crazy. In this kind of mood, there was no telling what he might do. Sheriff Pangborn might end up extending the hospitality of the local jail to him once again—thus proving Delilah's accusations of last week correct.

  But hell. Another Saturday night staring at four walls when he knew what he wanted, and what he wanted kept saying no, was enough to make a man do foolish things.

  Like show up at The Hole in the Wall when he'd sworn to himself he was going to keep away.

  "Sam? Sam, you in there?" Oggie cackled gleefully.

  "Lay off, Oggie."

  "Well, pardon me for breathin'," Oggie groused, looking much less hurt than he was trying to sound. In fact, if anything, Oggie Jones was looking downright delighted.

  "Hey, Oggie. 'Nother round down here," someone called from the end of the bar.

  "Keep your pants up. I'm comin'." Oggie moved down the bar.

  Sam, relieved to have the interrogation at least temporarily suspended, turned and sat, facing out, sipping his beer and staring at the room.

  At the pool table nearby, Chloe Swan, who ran Swan's Motel, was playing eight-ball with some guy Sam had never seen before—and beating the pants off him, too. But the guy didn't seem to mind. He looked gone on her, grinning in frank appreciation of her ability every time she made a shot. And she was nice to him. She joked and she was friendly. Probably the poor guy didn't have the faintest idea that he didn't have a chance. No one really had a chance with Chloe. She was Patrick Jones's to the core, even though the whole town had started to doubt that Patrick would ever get smart and claim her.

  Sam shook his head. Who could figure the things that went on between women and men? Not him, that was for sure. Take Delilah—which he'd love to do, but which wasn't damn likely, the way things were stacking up. Sam had been absolutely positive, after what he'd seen in her eyes last Saturday, that with a combination of persistence and patience on his part, she'd drop right into his arms.

  But it was not happening. She left his carvings, the gifts of hand and heart, outside in the cold and damp. And she hung up every time he called. Persistence and patience, with Delilah Jones, at least, were getting Sam exactly nowhere. He'd given up on them yesterday.

  He was still foolish enough to hope that just maybe she was sitting home tonight, longing for his call. But if she was, he knew it was for only one reason—so she could hang up on him again.

  He was just going to have to get real about this, Sam admitted. He was going to have to forget all about the hard-hearted little witch and start looking around again.

  He rubbed at
his jaw. Maybe he'd grow his beard back. Hell, yes. Then he'd go out looking for a woman who could appreciate him just the way he was.

  At the pool table, Chloe sank the eight ball. The stranger applauded. Chloe laughed and began racking the balls for another game.

  Oggie approached once more. Sam, who in recent years always limited himself to two a night, signaled for a third beer, and soon after that, another. Five minutes later, he was signaling again.

  "That's your fifth," Oggie pointed out.

  "Don't worry. I'll make this one last awhile."

  Oggie, looking doubtful, filled the mug once more. When he set it down, Sam picked it up and carried it to the end of the room and through the split in the green curtain to the poker table beyond.

  In the smoky recess on the other side of the curtain, eight men were playing: the two strangers Oggie had mentioned and six locals, including Brendan Jones. Brendan, a cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth and an empty drink at his elbow, looked like a man who'd lost his best friend.

  Brendan's mental state didn't seem to have hurt his card playing, though. The stack of bills in front of him was triple the size of any other stack on the table.

  In fact, the game itself appeared to have gotten pretty serious. Some real money was changing hands.

  One of the strangers, a rangy character with a black mustache, made a tight comment about Brendan's playing style just as Sam slid through the curtain.

  Brendan's smile was humorless. "I may not have your style. But I do have a lot of your money, my friend."

  "That'll change," the stranger said.

  Brendan gave a mirthless laugh. "Ante up."

  Owen Beardsly, across the table from where Sam had entered, looked up. "Sam. You want in? This table's too rich for my blood."

  Sam considered. "What's the game?"

  "Texas Hold'em."

  Sam rubbed his chin. Texas Hold'em was a chancy game to get involved in. Two cards were dealt to each player, with five cards in the center, face down. The betting commenced as the dealer flipped the center cards, two first, then one at a time. Each player built a five-card hand from the two he held and the five cards in the center. The problem was that a player saw too much. It was easy to assume the hand the other guy was building. And too often, it was easy to assume wrong.

  But Sam had purposely brought along a wad of cash. He'd been thinking a good game might be just what he needed on a lonely night like this, that maybe a few hands of cards would settle down the reckless feeling that was eating at his nerves.

  "Bump limit?" Sam asked.

  "Nope."

  "Betting limit?"

  "Fifty."

  "Hell, why not?" Sam said. He took the chair Owen Beardsly vacated and laid his money down. The game resumed.

  Sam more or less held his own, winning a hand now and then only to lose several times soon after that. He was down a few hundred by eleven o'clock. But he didn't really care. Keeping his mind on the cards was working. The edgy feeling that could get him in trouble stayed in control.

  The real game was between the black-mustached stranger, who called himself Parnell, and Brendan. Tension grew higher between them as the hours ticked by. Brendan, apparently suffering over whatever had happened with his wife, took his frustration out on the thin stranger.

  Whenever Brendan won a hand—which was often—he'd haul in the pot with a big, smug grin on his face—a grin directed at Parnell. Parnell would remark that, where he came from, only fools gloated while they were still sitting at the table.

  And Brendan would chuckle. "I'd rather be a fool than a loser, that's for sure."

  There would be a charged moment of silence, where every man wondered if Parnell would go flying across the table to grab Brendan by the throat. But then the next dealer would mutter "Ante up," and there would be another round of play.

  As the hours went by, though, Brendan's playing became reckless. He started losing. The pile of bills in front of him shrank. He then became morose, sipping steadily at his double whiskeys, his handsome face growing more sullen with each hand. Parnell, cold-eyed and quiet, seemed to radiate a wintry satisfaction as his own stack of winnings grew.

  Sam, who'd finally started to win himself, considered advising Brendan to go home. But he knew if he did that he would have found the trouble he'd been trying to stay out of. You didn't give a Jones advice when he'd had a fight with his wife and was losing at poker—unless you wanted your face rearranged.

  Maybe, Sam thought, Brendan's luck would turn again. But it didn't. Brendan Jones continued to lose.

  At a little past one, Parnell suggested in a toneless voice that they play a hand with no betting limit. Brendan, grown even more reckless with frustration, agreed. And Rocky Collins, who'd always had more nerve than sense, said that was just fine with him. Three men opted to sit out the hand, including the other out-of-towner, Bernie Flack.

  Tim Brown, to Sam's left, dealt. When all the cards were out, Tim flipped over the first two center cards: deuce of diamonds, Ace of diamonds.

  Parnell, first to bet, shoved two hundred dollars into the center of the table. Brendan, whose pile was dangerously low, saw it and raised a hundred. Rocky Collins, Sam and Parnell all stayed in. Tim Brown dropped, and then turned over the next card: five of hearts.

  Parnell shoved another two hundred into the center of the table. Brendan pushed out two hundred to match it, and raised a hundred once more.

  Rocky sighed and shook his head. "I'm out." Glances were exchanged around the table. Who could tell what in the hell Rocky Collins had in his head for brains? He'd stay in for no reason anyone could see—and drop out the same way.

  Now, as the game continued, there were only three players left: Sam, Parnell and Brendan. Sam and Parnell shoved out their money to stay in.

  The next card was a Queen of diamonds. Parnell, who must have got what he was hoping for with that, shoved out five hundred dollars. Brendan was forced to do a little counting, but he had it and covered the bet. Sam, whose hand was also looking good, stayed in, but played it safe and didn't raise. He stole a glance at Brendan, who now had nothing but bare table in front of him. What the hell was Oggie's youngest son planning to use for money on the final round?

  Tim flipped the last card: the black lady, Queen of spades.

  Parnell calmly pushed another five hundred dollars into the center.

  Brendan looked at the pile of money for a long while. Then he turned to face Parnell and stated the obvious in a flat voice. "I don't have it on me."

  Parnell replied, "Then you're out."

  Brendan stared at the other man, his black eyes burning. And then he took the ring of keys that always hung at his waist and threw them on the table.

  Rocky Collins shook his head and muttered something disbelieving under his breath.

  Brendan said, "That's to my truck. She's a beauty, and she's worth eighty grand. I've got over fifteen thousand in her. Will you take that as a guarantee—say, for a thousand?"

  Parnell turned to Sam. "What do you think?"

  Sam thought Brendan Jones was acting like an idiot. But he didn't say that. He considered his own hand and came to a decision. Better let him do it, he thought. Give him a good scare, then make sure everything worked out okay.

  "I've seen the truck," Sam said. "I'll allow it as collateral on a thousand."

  Parnell shrugged. "All right, then. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me."

  Brendan spoke right up. "Agreed then. That's your five hundred—and a five hundred raise."

  Sam looked at his two cards, and thought about making a little mischief himself. But no. He was getting soft and sentimental in his old age. If he raised, who knew what the hell Brendan would throw in next. He'd give Brendan a break, because right now Brendan was very close to the edge of a cliff as far as Sam could see. Sam shrugged, and he pushed a thousand into the center of the table.

  Parnell kicked in his own five hundred to call. Then he laid his cards on the t
able: a three and jack of diamonds. With the cards in the center, his best hand was an Ace-high flush.

  Brendan smiled. He laid his cards down: a pair of deuces, with the other deuce and the two queens on the table, he beat Parnell. "Full house," he said.

  Sam almost felt guilty laying down his hand, but he did it. He laid down his two queens. "Four of a kind," he said gently and glanced at the huge stack of bills with the keys to the Sweet Amy right there on top. "I guess that's all mine."

  After that, it was all over but the goodbyes.

  Parnell, none too happy, but not as incensed as he might have been had Brendan cleaned him out, gathered up his remaining winnings and left. One by one, the others stood and went out through the green curtain, too. In minutes, only Brendan and Sam remained, looking at each other over the pile of booty in the center.

  Now the other men were gone, Brendan had the grace to look sheepish. "Amy will have my hide on a stretcher," he muttered grimly.

  Sam grunted. "Then why'd you do it?"

  Brendan shrugged. "That crazy Jones blood, I guess. Amy accused me tonight of not loving her. And after that, nothin' meant anything anyway. And I did think I could take that sucker. Hell, I did take him. It was you I couldn't beat." Brendan fell silent for a moment, staring at the keys in the center of the table. Then he went on, "Truth to tell, I haven't got the faintest idea where I'm going to come up with your thousand, Sam. I just made the monthly payment, so I'm a little short. I was playing tonight on just about all I got left. Will you give me a day or two to work it out?"

  Sam looked at the other man, thinking. He'd planned to simply give the fool back the keys and be satisfied with the tall stack of bills. But he'd just had an idea.

  In his mind, he saw Delilah, the way she'd looked that night in her kitchen, just before she dropped that damn frying pan and shoved him away. Her mouth had been turned up to his, soft as a full-blown rose, her body had been pliant to his touch. She'd been ready, he was sure, to fall into his arms. She did want him, he knew it. All he needed was some time alone with her, some time to make that flicker of desire he'd seen in her eyes burst into a hungry flame.