The Law And Miss Hardisson. Lynna BanningЧитать онлайн книгу.
eyes to his. “What about dried beans?”
“Don’t know many lawyers who keep a stash of dried beans around. You got some?”
“Well, no. I’ve been taking my meals at the hotel until my stove is delivered.”
“Not beans, then, it looks like.”
“There must be something we could bet!”
He liked the way she didn’t give up on an idea right away. She had a most unladylike amount of grit, and he liked that, too. In fact, he mused as he watched her eyes widen at the cards in her hand, he found himself downright content in her company. He hadn’t felt comfortable around a woman since…
The warning bell went off in his head just as she looked up. Take one fine-looking female and stir in a healthy dose of interest and you’ve got trouble. Big trouble. The kind he swore never to risk again.
He had to get this over with and get out of here. If her mind was so set on playing poker, he’d use that to his advantage.
“This might seem a little unusual, ma’am, but once we had a Mexican foreman and an Indian wrangler on the ranch. They were usually on opposite sides in the skirmishes the Mexicans and the Comanches got into in Texas, so when they played cards, they bet ‘truths.”’
“Truths? How do you mean?”
“We called it Truth Poker.”
Her eyes lit up. “You mean the winner could ask a question and the loser had to answer it?”
“Yep. You can see why bets never got very high.”
She leaned across the desk. “But it sounds like such fun! Perhaps we could do the same?”
Clayton regarded her with satisfaction. “You serious?”
“Of course I’m serious! Hardissons do not mince words when it comes to the truth—it’s an immutable constant in a world of turmoil and change. It is an obligation of honor to seek it out. Truth,” she reiterated, “is sacred!”
She straightened her shoulders. He watched the soft green dress pull over her breasts. She looked straight into his eyes and Clayton felt his gut tighten. Her dress was the exact shade of her eyes, a clear, sea green with startling flecks of amber.
“Truth,” he enunciated carefully over a throat gone dry, “is relative.”
Her head came up. “Truth is what is true.” The cherries waved like miniature boats on a stormy ocean.
“Either way, ma’am, it’s a matter of honor. If we agree to this kind of bet, neither of us can lie.”
“Of course not!” she agreed with a smart little nod of her head. “That’s what will make it interesting. Your move, I believe?”
All at once Clayton thought of a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this. It was one thing for Luis and White Owl to barter information. As a matter of fact it made the bunkhouse card games unbeatable entertainment—you never knew what you were going to hear.
But what the hell was he doing, gambling with his secrets? Sweat gathered at the base of his neck, and not because of the oppressive heat in the small room. For another, more disturbing reason.
The night air hung heavy and still, as if waiting for something. A thundershower, maybe. Through the door she’d purposely propped open he smelled the dust, the faint scent of sagebrush, smoke from some strolling ranch hand’s hand-rolled cigarette. If he had the sense God gave an ant, he’d call a halt to the poker lesson and walk this lady safely back to her residence.
Without conscious thought, his lips opened. “I’ll take one card.”
She slapped it down and he glanced at it, suppressing a smile. He needn’t worry. It would be over soon. He’d win this hand easily. In fact, she was so green he’d win every game and that prospect caught his interest. He’d worm out of her what she was hiding about Fortier in three hands. Four at the most.
“I’ll bet one question.” He watched her face.
She was obviously pretty smart. He wanted to see what she’d do when she lost her wager and he began to probe.
What occurred to him next sent a current of excitement through his brain.
Under the guise of the poker game, he could ask her anything he wanted, find out her secrets. That intrigued him almost as much as Fortier’s whereabouts.
Again the warning whisper in his brain. If you weren’t curious about her in the first place, you wouldn’t give two figs who won the game.
But he was curious. Interested. Drawn to her, even.
All of it. Clayton sighed as she peeled two cards off the top of the deck and slid them into her hand. Her eyelids flicked down, then up. “Call.”
He laid his cards faceup on the desk. “Two pair, kings and jacks.”
“Full home,” she replied in a matter-of-fact voice. “Three queens and a pair of fives.”
Clayton stared at the cards. “Full house,” he mumbled. “Hellfire, a full house!”
“Excuse me, yes—a full house.” She glowed with triumph, her cheeks rosy, her green eyes dancing.
“And now, for my question.” The smile she sent him made his head spin.
“Yeah?” It was all he could think of to say.
The lady with the cherries on her hat cocked her head. “Tell me, then, Mr. Black. What exactly are you hiding about Brance Fortier?”
Clayton jerked. “Why do you think I’m hiding something?”
“I just do. I sense it. When you talked about him this afternoon, you stared at the floor. Only the floor. Yet when you spoke of other things, you looked directly at me.”
“I did, did I?”
“You did.”
“You’re pretty observant,” he grumbled.
“I am extremely observant, yes,” she agreed, her voice low. “And you owe me a truthful answer. What really happened in Texas that you should come all the way to Oregon to settle it?”
Lord, he was trapped. Hoisted in his own net. He closed his eyes.
He didn’t know whether he could tell her. He was honor-bound to speak the truth, but he wasn’t sure he could get the words out. Wasn’t sure he could live with himself if he heard his voice say out loud what had really occurred.
“Mr. Black?” she reminded. “A pledge is a pledge. I’m waiting.”
“You bring any whiskey for the coffee?”
Her eyes grew round. “No.”
Clayton groaned.
“But I could get some,” she added quickly. “From the establishment across the street.”
“Forget it. I don’t want you going into a saloon. I’ll do without it.”
She waited. Over the sound of their breathing in the soft night air came the scrape of crickets and a tinny piano playing an old song he used to like. “Lorena.”
All at once he couldn’t breathe. He’d have to speak of it, maybe not tell all of it, but enough to satisfy the game of honor he’d so foolishly started. God in heaven, he prayed. He wasn’t sure he could do even that much.
“Okay, Miss Hardisson. Listen up.”
The penetrating green eyes traveled over him as if he were a bug caught under a magnifying glass. He resisted the urge to stand up and smooth back his hair for inspection.
Irene focused her attention on the cords that stood out on Clayton Black’s tanned neck. She had him now. But for some reason her feeling of triumph faded