Wild Card. Susan Amarillas

an instant before the closet door slammed shut and cut off any and all light.

      Alone in the dark, a childhood fear surfaced in a gut-wrenching instant.

      She threw down the can she’d been holding and lunged for the door. “Open,” she commanded, as though there was some power holding it shut. She tried the knob. It turned, but the door didn’t move. “Come on,” she demanded, more loudly and urgently this time. “Open, will you?”

      Panic took shape and form like a demon lurking in the darkness, waiting, watching, ready. to pounce.

      Heart racing, breath ragged, she jiggled the knob again, twisting hard, her skin nearly tearing on the brass knob. “Open!” she ordered once more. With all her weight she pulled on the door and this time the door obeyed.

      With a creak and groan, the door flew open and she half fell, half stumbled into the empty saloon, managing to stay on her feet only by her grip on the knob and some fancy footwork.

      She stood there, bent slightly at the waist, trying to regain her breath, her composure. Eyes shut, she waited for the panic to melt away.

      When, finally, she felt in control again, she spared the threatening cave a look.

      With a shake of her head, she forced a little laugh, mostly to dispel the last of the demons. Demons always went away when you laughed at them.

      “Dumber than a prairie dog,” she muttered to herself. Now, there was something she hadn’t heard in a while. Sully had always said that, usually to her.

      Sully. Why, she hadn’t thought of him in years. She put a chair in front of the closet door this time, took a lamp from the bar with her for light and found the coffee and the pot.

      The stove, which she’d started earlier, was going nicely and she fetched water from the rain barrel out back. A couple of scoops and she set the pot to boiling.

      Clair always liked her coffee strong and hot. She liked to feel the steam against her cheek and wasn’t above blowing on the liquid, even if it was not ladylike.

      But Sully was different.

      Sully had liked coffee mild—not too mild, but mild. She never was quite sure what that meant, but she certainly knew when she got it wrong. Sully got angry if his coffee was too hot or too strong. Wouldn’t want Sully to get angry. She shook her head in disgust—or wonder, she wasn’t sure.

      She took a seat at the table closest to the stove and let her mind wander back a few years.

      She’d met Sully in New Orleans. Clair had been seventeen and green as spring grass. Sully was tall, dark and handsome and had a way of talking that could charm a preacher’s daughter right out of the church. Sully always knew what to say to get his way—with her, and with about any other woman, she had come to realize too late.

      She went to check on the coffee and tossed a small piece of firewood into the stove, using her skirt as hand protection when she closed the door.

      She stood there warming herself, listening to the metal crack and snap as it expanded with the heat. Rain sprayed the windows, and the distant rumble of thunder echoed off the mountains.

      Sully had always liked warm weather. He’d never have made it around here, not in this damp cold. Of course, there was no danger of running into Sully here or anywhere else. Poor Sully, she’d heard he was dead—shot by a jealous husband, no doubt.

      She’d felt bad when she’d heard, though why, she wasn’t sure. Lord knew he’d lied and cheated on her, used and abused her and always had a reason they couldn’t get married.

      Four years. That’s how long she’d stayed. That’s how long it had taken her to wise up and figure out that she could make it on her own, that she’d be better off on her own. It simply came to her one day, one morning. She woke up and knew she didn’t love him anymore, that if this was what love was she wanted no part of it.

      Sully hadn’t taken her announced departure gracefully. It had taken a month for the bruises on her face to heal.

      The coffee boiled over, brown liquid foaming and sizzling on the hot surface. Thoughtlessly, she grabbed the handle. “Ouch!”

      Searing pain shot up her fingers and through her hand. Remembering to use her skirt as protection, she dragged the pot off the burner then plunged her hand into the bucket of water, gritting her teeth as the cold of the water covered the burn. Her eyes fluttered closed as she moved her fingers in the water.

      Another minute and she lifted her hand out to take a look. She could see her palm was as red as flannel but not a blister in sight. Thank goodness for small blessings. The pain eased off to almost nothing.

      Just thinking about men is trouble.

      Well, no more. Ever since Sully, she’d sworn off. She didn’t think about men, didn’t want a man, didn’t need a man. Instinctively, her eyes lifted to the top of the stairs.

      Nope! She wasn’t thinking about him anymore. He could come and go—especially go.

      With that thought firmly in place, Clair went to check on the storm. The sky was still gray, but optimistically lighter, and the rain was more of a mist than anything else.

      No one much was stirring and the street was more like a lake bottom. She had the distinct feeling few, if any, men would be venturing out just to have a drink or play a hand of cards.

      That being the case, she might as well leave that Closed sign in the window and do some housekeeping. Nothing like hard work to keep her mind off...things.

      Cleaning required soap so, after retrieving her coat and some money from upstairs, she ventured outside, made a dash along the plank sidewalk and ducked into the mercantile, which was three doors down on the same side.

      Large and square, the store had wooden counters on three sides. The walls were white wood and the counters a shade of pale blue. The glass in the cases gleamed from recent cleaning, and all the wall space was lined with shelves, floor to ceiling. They were well stocked with everything imaginable, including brightly labeled canned food—mustard to canned oysters. The countertops were stacked high with rolls of calico and gingham, and near the back, barrels held an assortment of brooms and rakes and shovels like some strange bouquet.

      A narrow-faced young clerk watched intently.

      “Morning.” She brushed the rain from her hair and smiled.

      “Morning,” the clerk answered, his somber expression split with a broad grin that revealed a broken bottom tooth. “Miserable weather to be out.”

      “Yes, it sure is.” She strolled along one counter, looking at the needles and thread and carved hair combs displayed under the glass. Window-shopping was a weakness.

      “Can I help you with something?” He came over to where she was standing by the calico. He was tall and gawky in the way of boys before they fill out.

      “Yes. I’d like a cake of lye soap and—” she scanned the shelves “—and, now that I’m looking, a few other things.”

      Twenty minutes later the wooden counter was stacked with sugar, flour, salt, coffee, eggs, bacon, butter and dried apples. She added a broom to the order, another bucket and lye soap.

      “Whew! I only came in for one thing.” She laughed.

      “Well, that’s how it is sometimes, and we’re glad—that is, my pa will be glad. It’s his store. I’m Larry Nelson.” He offered his hand.

      She accepted. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Clair...ah...Smith,” she added falteringly. No sense tempting fate.

      Larry ran the tally on a notepad, his red brows drawn down in concentration. “Comes to $7.15.” He beamed. “You passing through or settling in?”

      “Settling in,” she told him, liking the sound of it.

      He put the pad down and reached for a ledger book. “You want me to start