Chasing Rainbows (14 page)

“Maybe this Winston fella lost a lot of money to women in poker games.”

Annie immediately brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

He nodded somberly, managing to keep a straight face. “What other little pearls of wisdom have you gleaned from that book?”

“How to talk as fancy as you do, for one thing.” She threw back her shoulders and took a deep breath. In a voice as stilted and forced as that of a child reciting lines in a play, she said: “I have always depended upon the patience and tolerance of those wiser than me for guidance.”

“You can’t be serious.”

She glanced up at him in surprise. “It says here that that’s a—” She paused, scanned the page, and read aloud,“‘…a very proper phrase for a woman, useful in any number of circumstances.’”

“May I?” he asked, reaching for the book. He flipped randomly through the pages and passed it back to her, having reached two conclusions. First, that Winston’s Guide was good for producing nothing but a bunch of nervous, empty-headed females who would know how to set a proper table and stitch a hem a hell of a lot better than they would know what to do with their husbands on their wedding night. And second, that Winston himself was a misogynistic, pompous ass.

“That’s some book, darlin’,” he said, passing it back. “You have all those rules memorized now?”

“Hell, no.”

He grinned, wondering which choice words Annie would air once she reached the chapter that prohibited women from swearing.

She studied the book with a petulant frown, then brought up her chin, her eyes shining with obstinate defiance. “I reckon these fancy manners are fine in some parts, but as far as I’m concerned, there’s just one rule that any woman needs out West.”

“What’s that?”

“Shoot first and ask questions later.” She arched one dark-blond brow, an impish smile curving her lips. “What do you think ol’ Winston would have to say about that?”

Jake matched her smile. “I think he’d have an attack of the vapors and faint dead away.”

“Me too.”

Laughter bubbled from Annie’s lips, as light and fluid as water streaming over rocks in the clear morning sunshine. Jake listened, smiling. The sound of it was deeply satisfying, as though Annabel Lee Foster’s laughter were something he had been waiting his entire lifetime to hear.

In the ensuing silence, Annie tilted back her head and studied the sky, as though searching for signs that the light rain would soon ebb. Watching her in that unguarded moment, Jake was once again struck by the beauty of her features. Perhaps it was just the grayness of the day that heightened the rich highlights in her hair, but at that moment, Annie’s pale-brown tresses seemed to shine with streaks of pure flaxen gold.

A soft mist coated her skin, giving it a fresh, dewy appearance. Steady determination filled her eyes, which today appeared more brown than gold or green. Her brows were a dark blond and delicately arched. Her eyelashes were of the same dark hue, except for the very tips, which were flecked with gold. Her mouth was wide and generous, her lips the delectable pink of a ripe summer melon. Perhaps the only flaw in her face was her chin. It seemed too strong and square for most woman, but it somehow suited her.

Hers wasn’t the kind of beauty that hit a man straight on, he realized. Annie’s beauty was subtle, more elusive. It revealed itself in different lights and with different expressions. She wasn’t the brassy, showy type that a man would notice right off in a crowd, but once he did notice her, he might not be able to take his eyes away. Annabel Lee Foster had the kind of look that drew a man in and kept him there.

He studied her for a moment. “Annabel Lee. Is that your real name?”

She nodded. “It’s after a lady in a famous poem. My mama used to read it to me when I was a little girl.”

Jake took a swig of whiskey and recited in a deep baritone, rich with equal amounts of alcohol and melodrama, “It was many and many a year ago, in a kingdom by the sea, that there a maiden lived whom you may know by the name of Annabel Lee; and this maiden she lived with no other thought than to love and be loved by me.”

Annie stared at him in astonishment. “You know the poem?”

“Edgar Allan Poe. One of the South’s finest poets.” He lifted his bottle and smiled. “And finest drunks.”

“I’d like to be her.”

“Who?”

“The lady in the poem.”

“She dies.”

Annie nodded. “I always wondered about that,” she said, absently twirling pine needles between her fingers. “The way the poem’s written, the way that Poe fella writes about her, it feels like he’s drowning in regret. Like he never knew how much he loved her until she was gone and it was too late to change anything.”

Her words caused an odd tightening in Jake’s chest, as though they carried a prophetic glimpse into some dark, inescapable future. He set aside his bottle and shook off the maudlin thought, glad that Annie spared him the necessity of a reply by continuing, “I wouldn’t mind dying. Not if I could be loved the way she was loved before I go.” She glanced away, clearly embarrassed. “That sounds plum crazy, doesn’t it?”

He shrugged. “There are worse things to die for.”

“It won’t happen, though.”

“You won’t die?”

“No, the love part.”

“Really?” he drawled, studying her curiously. “Why not?”

“I know what menfolk want in a woman, and it ain’t me.”

“You’re beautiful, Annie.”

She immediately waved that away. “No, I’m not. I ain’t all peachy and soft, the way a man wants a woman to be. And even if I were, that wouldn’t matter none. Men want more than just someone pretty to look at. They want someone who’s upstanding and obedient, delicate and good. Someone who goes to church regular-like and can raise proper children. Someone who ain’t like me.”

“So you’re turning your life around,” he said with a glimmer of understanding. “You want to be a good woman now.”

“Not good, just respectable. I reckon the way I’ve lived, there ain’t a chance in hell of me ever being good.” She paused, lifting her shoulders in a light shrug. “Maybe it’s just as well. I’d rather be strong than good anyway. I’ve seen too many good people get knocked flat by this life.”

“The meek shall inherit the earth.”

“What’s left of it,” she immediately countered. She hooked her arms around her legs and rested her chin atop her knees. A deep, contemplative expression filled her face. “No, that ain’t for me. I’m not the type to wait around and let other folks tell me what I can and can’t have. Seems to me that each of us has a responsibility to make our own destiny, to turn our lives into whatever we want.”

He looked at her, aghast. “Is life really that simple to you?”

“Of course.” She studied his face, surprised at his reaction. “Isn’t it to you?”

“No.”

Jake looked away, absently staring into the dismal gray horizon. All he knew was what he had seen. Luck either ran for you or it didn’t. It wasn’t a world of justice or goodwill, a world where the bad were punished and the innocent were loved, cherished, and protected. It was a world of random, utter chance. Anything could happen to anybody, anytime.

“How old are you, mister?” she asked.

“Twenty-nine.” He studied her face for a moment in silence. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You look younger.”

“I feel older.”

Jake smiled. “Don’t we all, darlin’. Don’t we all.”

Annie shifted as a lull fell over their conversation. Cat chose that moment to return from the woods. She pranced up and eyed Jake with that single cocked brow of hers, coolly expressing her feline disdain. She didn’t hiss at him as she usually did but simply lifted her lip in a silent snarl, then settled herself on Annie’s lap.

“I think she’s beginning to like you,” Annie suggested, rewarding Cat’s ill-tempered behavior by kissing her between her bent ears and gently dragging her fingers through the animal’s knotted fur.

Jake disdainfully eyed the shaggy beast. “You can’t imagine how delighted I am to hear that.”

“It’s not you personally — she just don’t like men in general.”

He let that questionable bit of news pass without comment.

Wisely choosing to abandon that line of conversation, Annie glanced down at the cards he had been dealing when she first approached and, receiving his silent nod of assent, flipped over the hand that lay nearest to her. Four kings and a deuce.

He grinned and arched a dark brow. “Care to make a wager?”

She eyed him suspiciously, then reached for his cards and turned them over. Four aces and an eight. A reproachful frown touched her lips. “I thought you said you didn’t cheat.”

“That’s not cheating, darlin’, that’s just a little parlor trick. Helps keep me in practice.”

In truth, Jake wasn’t practicing at all but simply idling away the time. He was as familiar with the feel of a deck of cards in his hands as he was with the feel of the ground beneath his boots. He could tell by the weight of a deck if a card was missing, trimmed, or padded. If a deck was marked, he felt it instantly. His fingers moved automatically to any slightly raised bumps in the center of a card, or pinholes at the edge.

He needed none of the mechanical holdouts, sleeve grips, or bulky devices relied upon by other gamblers. Jake played strictly by instinct. He had a keenness not only for the feel of the deck but for those around him. He could tell who was bluffing and when, who was holding back, who held a good hand and who held nothing.

“You think you can do it again? With me watching?” Annie challenged.

“I’ll try.” Jake scooped up the deck and shuffled. The cards flew through his hands with the whisper of silk, slapping, parting, sliding in and out, rolling through his fingers, then coming back together again. He shuffled the cards slowly, moving at a relaxed, rhythmic pace, then more quickly, then slowly again. His fingers sorted and adjusted the deck, until everything fell into just the right order. “What would you like?” he asked politely.

She thought for a moment, her expression highly skeptical. “A straight. Ace high.”

He offered her the deck. She split it and passed it back. He performed an easy, one-handed shuffle, then dealt the cards and set the pack facedown between them.

Annie eagerly picked up her hand. She slapped it down seconds later with a triumphant smile. She held a three of spades, followed by a ten, jack, queen, and king of hearts. “Ha! You missed. I didn’t get my ace.”

Jake merely cocked one brow. “You planning on keeping that three? Most folks would discard.”

Her gaze moved to the pile of cards that sat between them. Surprise flashed through her eyes, followed by total disbelief. She reached for the deck and turned over the top card: a shiny red ace of hearts winked up at her.

An appreciative smile curved her lips as she folded her cards and passed them back to him. “Is that why you gamble, mister? Because you’re good at it?”

“I suppose.” Jake thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Fact is, there are few things in this life that I do well. I know how to gamble, I know how to kill, and I know how to drink. Sins all, but of the three, it seems to me the least shameful way for me to make my living is with cards.”

“You like the life?”

“Well enough.”

He liked the tension, the uncertainty, the risk. He liked the smoky allure of the saloon, the rowdiness of the mining camps, the sheer bawdiness of the cathouses. Before the War Between the States, he’d plied his trade in elegant floating gambling parlors, listening to the gentle shish-slosh of paddle wheelers as they slowly cruised up and down the Mississippi. After the war, he’d played cards to the frantic clickety-clack of the steam trains that carried him out to the territories. East or West, it was all the same to him.

“It suits you,” Annie announced after a minute. “You ain’t the settling-down type, mister.”

He smiled. “Is that a fact?” he said, but he didn’t argue.

It wasn’t that Jake didn’t enjoy women. He adored them. A world without them would be a very barren place indeed. He loved the softness of their skin, the gentleness of their touch, their lilting laughter, their flirtatious glances, and their seductively swaying walk. But the women he loved best were the ones who understood the rules of the game. The ones with sophistication, experience, and a strong sensual appetite. The ones who contented themselves after lovemaking with new gowns and diamond trinkets rather than promises of undying love and eternal devotion. Those were promises he had never given and doubted he ever would give.

What it all came down to, Jake thought, was a matter of trade-offs. As far as he was concerned, one of the most appealing things about women was their infinite variety. He had yet to meet a woman who merited forfeiting his freedom in return for the rather dubious reward of domestic bliss. Something about the whole concept of marriage seemed eerily unnatural to him. Rather like watching a trained bear — attired in a pointy hat and matching skirt — get up on its hind legs and dance.

“So what type am I?” he asked.

Annie frowned as she studied him. “The moving-on type. The smooth-talking, fancy-pants type. You use your charm the way a crooked sheriff uses his badge, flashing it to get whatever you want. You snap your fingers and get women, whiskey, money. It’s all just a game to you.”

Jake arched one dark brow. “Why does that sound suspiciously like an insult?”

She shook her head. “Just a fact, that’s all. Folks are different, I guess,” she said with a wistful sigh. “Now, me, I ain’t much of a gambler. I only gambled one time, with that was with that skunk J. D. Thomas.”

“Who’s J. D. Thomas?”

“The fella who used to own The Palace Hotel.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “I went into town one day for supplies, and this Thomas fella recognized me. He started talking real loud, saying as how there wasn’t a woman born who could outshoot him. Said there was just one thing a woman was good for, and that firing a gun wasn’t it.” Annie wrinkled her nose in distaste and looked up at Jake. “You know the kind, mister. Big fella, loud and mean. Jackass brains and a face so ugly it’d scare the skin off a snake
. Mas feo que el pecado.
”