To Tease A Texan. Georgina Gentry

down at her, a charming, crooked grin—“I reckon if you’re gonna pour beer on me every time I come in, maybe I’d better.”

      “I was trying to keep you out of trouble.”

      He leaned against a porch railing and hiccoughed. “I reckon I can handle my own self, sweetie.” He reached out and slapped her familiarly across the bottom.

      “Don’t do that. And don’t call me ‘sweetie,’ you saddle tramp!”

      “Okay, I’m agreeable. You got a name? I reckon we ain’t howdied yet. I’m Larado.”

      “Larado what?”

      “Sweetie”—he grinned, pushing his Stetson back—“since you’re a Texan, you should know it ain’t polite to ask a stranger too many questions. What’s your handle?”

      “I’m Lark, er, Lark Smith.” She held out her hand awkwardly. Since she was a runaway, it wouldn’t be too smart to give him her full name.

      “Well, Lark, sweetie”—his big hand engulfed hers and he hung on—“I like tall, pretty brunettes. Any more like you at home?”

      “I’m a mirror twin,” she said before she thought.

      “A what?”

      “You know, I’ve got a dimple on the left side, she’s got one on the right. I’m left-handed—”

      “She’s right-handed. Now I get it.” He nodded. “Well, how about let’s goin’ up to your room?”

      “I only wait tables here, nothing else.” She tried to pull out of his grasp and kept her tone cold.

      He swayed a little on his feet, and she could smell the whiskey. “I got no money anyway. Maybe you’d take a gold watch?”

      “You want to get another beer poured on you?” She jerked out of his hand. “Now, go sleep it off somewhere.”

      “I reckon maybe I have had a little too much red-eye.”

      “A little?” She snorted. “Why, I’ll bet you couldn’t hit the ground with your hat in three tries. You had to be blind not to see the marked cards in that game.”

      He stumbled and sat down heavily on the edge of the wooden sidewalk. “Now, that Snake fella seemed like a right friendly hombre.”

      Lark snorted again. “Why, he’d steal the butter off a sick beggar’s biscuit. Cowboy, you’d better report back to your outfit and stay out of dives like this one.”

      He shook his head and rolled a cigarette with unsteady hands, looking up at her. “Came up with a trail herd a few days ago, but now they’re sold, and I ain’t found another job. Thought I might win enough to ship me and my horse back to Texas.”

      “Land’s sake, partner,” she warned, “you won’t ever win playing at the Last Chance. I’ve only worked here a few months but I spotted the cardsharps right off.”

      He smoked with unsteady hands and seemed to be thinking it over. “Maybe I should go back in there and demand my money.”

      She shook her head. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. You don’t know how tough the boys in the Last Chance can be.”

      “I can handle myself, sweetie.” He tried to stand up, stumbled, reached out and caught her arm to steady himself. He was a big one, all right, taller even than her uncle Trace or her cousin Ace. He stood swaying and staring down at her, and she was tall for a woman. “You cold?”

      “Of course I am!” she snapped and pulled away from him. “This skimpy outfit they make me wear hasn’t got enough fabric to cover a broom handle.”

      “Looks good to me.” He grinned at her.

      “Get out of here and go sleep it off,” she snapped. “Now I got to go, they’re yelling for me inside.”

      “Lark,” he murmured, “can you sing?”

      “Not very well. Now vamoose, pronto. Maybe tomorrow, you can get on with some outfit.”

      He shook his head. “Done tried. Nobody around here needs a wanderin’ saddle tramp. Reckon I’ll go back to Texas.”

      “Good idea. And a word of advice. Stay away from poker tables when you’re blind drunk.” She turned and went back into the saloon.

      Larado squinted in the darkness and looked after her. He was drunk all right, but not as drunk as she thought. She was purty, a tall dark-haired girl in a gaudy blue dress. Like him, she looked like she had some Injun blood. His manhood stirred as he remembered the feel of her and the scent of her perfume. What the hell was he thinking? Girls like that one came high, and he hadn’t a nickel to his name. He’d have to sleep out on the prairie tonight with his horse, and maybe tomorrow his luck would change. His pants were wet with beer and he was getting cold in the night wind. He pulled his coat collar up around his ears and stumbled away.

      Lark scurried back into the smoky, noisy saloon. Joe, the short owner, stood scowling by the poker table with a cigar between his teeth. “Lark, where the hell you been?”

      “Uh, just out.”

      “Snake here tells me you caused him to lose a sucker he was about to finish off.”

      “I accidentally spilled a drink in the cowboy’s lap.” She needed this job.

      “Aww, don’t believe her,” said the blond whore Dixie, perching her rear on the poker table. “That was a pretty good gold watch. Besides, that broke up the whole game.”

      “Lark,” Joe said, “you’re a lousy waitress. Any more trouble outta you and you’re fired.”

      “But, Joe—”

      “You heard me.” He walked away from the table.

      Lark looked helplessly at the crowd around the poker table.

      Snake frowned and shrugged. “You heard him. Next time I got a sucker on the hook, stay out of it. Now, Dixie, get that talented fanny of yours off the table.”

      The men all laughed. Dixie laughed too and started to saunter away. Lark caught up with her. “You were helping Snake cheat that cowboy.”

      “So what?” Dixie sneered. “Besides, that Texan’s a grown man. He must have been blind not to see Snake dealin’ them cards off the bottom. Anyway, what business is it of yours?”

      Lark caught her arm. “I ought to slap you, Dixie.”

      “You do, and I’ll pull out some of them beautiful black curls. Did I ever tell you I once got into a fight with your sister?”

      Everything else was forgotten. “You know my sister?”

      “Yeah.”

      “I don’t think I believe you.”

      “Don’t give a damn whether you do or not. Her name’s Lacey and she’s prissy and straitlaced. She wouldn’t be caught dead workin’ in a saloon.”

      That was her twin, all right. “Where’d—?”

      “I don’t wanta talk to you no more,” Dixie drawled and started to saunter away, the red satin on her hips swaying as she walked.

      “Dixie, tell me where you saw her.” Lark ran after her and caught her arm.

      “Let go of me, you bitch.” Dixie swung at her and Lark stepped away, but Dixie came at her again. Lark was a Texas girl, and she could give as good as she got. She buried her fingers in the whore’s bleached hair and gave it a good yank.

      Dixie howled like a stepped-on cat and came at her, scratching and shrieking.

      “You Southern-fried tramp!” Lark said, and they went down in a mix of short skirts, lace underwear, and tangled long legs.

      “Fight!