Wild Card. Susan Amarillas

So she bit back her deliciously sharp retort and merely said, “Too bad, mister. It’s your loss.”

      Turning on her heel, she strode out the door, which she slammed just as hard as she could. Hey, she had to do something with that temper of hers, didn’t she?

      Outside, the sun was high overhead. A pair of blackbirds perched on a hitching rail squawked but didn’t move as she went past. She skirted a supply wagon parked in front of Hansen’s Hardware and cut across the street, the dirt marble-hard against her shoes.

      A breeze tugged at her upswept hair and she had to fuss with pushing a stray lock back under the rim of her hat.

      On down Front Street she continued purposefully toward the opposite end of town and the only other saloon Broken Spur had to offer. This one was two stories and shared a common wall with Brownell’s Feed and Grain, and it sure looked the worse for wear. The outside was raw wood. weathered and cracked from too much sun and too little paint. The one large window hadn’t been washed since Noah was a boy, judging by the dirt and mud splattered there.

      Over the doorway someone had nailed up a handmade sign proclaiming this to be the Scarlet Lady Saloon. Scarlet Lady, huh? Sounded good to her.

      Feeling a little more confident, she pushed open the door and went inside. It took a couple of seconds and a little blinking for her eyes to adjust to the darkness.

      The place was pretty much the same layout as the first, though this one was more rectangular than square. The bar ran the length of the left side of the room and the walls had the added elegance, if you could call it that, of wainscot halfway up—though it was anyone’s guess what kind of wood it was, it was so black with dirt and stains.

      The nose-stinging scent of unemptied spittoons permeated the air, and dust motes drifted in the sunlight that managed to filter inside.

      A dozen tables were mismatched with an equally odd assortment of chairs. The floor hadn’t seen the business end of a mop in a week of Sundays. A big yellow dog, with a tail as long as a whip, was licking up beer from under one of the chairs.

      With a heft of the carpetbag, which was getting heavier by the minute, she walked over to the bar, careful to keep her distance from those spittoons, and tried not to look at the paintings of nudes on the wall.

      “Afternoon,” she said to the rotund man who was eyeing her suspiciously.

      . “Lady, you sure you’re in the right place? This ain’t no tea parlor.” His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he spoke. His black vest tugged dangerously at the buttons holding it closed over his bulging stomach.

      “I’m sure.” Well, at least he was being civil—sort of. Better than the other place. She was hopeful.

      She let the carpetbag drop to the floor with a thud, glad to put the thing down for a while. She flexed her fingers to work out the cramps.

      “You ain’t temperance, is you?” the man prompted.

      “No. Not temperance.”

      He seemed to think on it for a moment, then shrugged. “Okay, girlie. It’s up to you.” He wiped at a spot in front of her on the bar. “What can I do for you?”

      “I think it’s more what I can do for you.”

      Clair turned around and surveyed the room again. It was dark, dingy, with paint peeling from the ceiling over near the front doors. Common sense said she should swallow her pride and go back to the other ptace—at least there were customers there. This place was clearly the poorest of the two, the underdog.

      Ah, well, now, she always did have a weakness for underdogs. Probably because she’d always been one herself. Besides, she thought with a ghost of a smile, how could she walk away from a place called the Scarlet Lady?

      Instead, she said, “Business slow?”

      The man stopped his cleaning. “A little. You gonna order, or what?”

      Clair had worked in saloons a long time and she knew her way around men—most of the time. Taking her hat off, she slid the long hat pin through the blue satin, then put it lightly on the bar in front of her. “What do you do for entertainment around here?”

      “Huh?” He raked her with an explicit gaze. “Why, honey,” he said in a voice rich with innuendo, “you don’t look the type. You lookin’ for a job...girlie?” His mouth quirked up in a lecherous excuse for a smile that revealed a broken front tooth.

      Clair didn’t falter. She was in her element. She did, however, put him straight. “I don’t do that kind of work.”

      His smile disappeared faster than the setting sun. “What kind, then?” He went back to rubbing that same spot on the bar. “I don’t need no one to clean and—”

      “That point is debatable, but if you’d like to increase your business I suggest having someone to play cards.”

      If thoughts were sounds she would have sworn she heard the wheels turning; she half expected to see steam coming out of his ears. “Cards?” he muttered, rubbing his beard-stubbled double chins.

      She knew the instant the whole picture came together in his mind. His eyes widened and he regarded her with new interest. “You?” Incredulity was obvious in his baritone voice.

      “Me.” Without hesitation, she produced a deck of cards from her drawstring reticule and thumbed the ends, making a fluttering sound like a stick on the spokes of a wagon wheel.

      “I like a game of cards as much as any man, girlie, but...”

      Crossing to a table, Clair dragged out a chair and sat down. “You name it and I can play it.” She gestured for him to join her and he obliged. “Five-card all right with you?”

      “Huh, yeah, sure.”

      She dealt and he watched like a man trying to keep track of the pea under the walnut shells.

      They played six hands.

      She won six hands.

      He frowned. “You think you’re pretty slick, don’t you?”

      “I think I’m good, if that’s what you mean.”

      Clearly he wasn’t a man who liked to be bested. “Hold on there.” He retrieved a fresh deck from a drawer behind the bar and slit the seal with his dirty thumbnail. “Let’s try that again...with my deck.”

      “Okay,” she agreed. “You deal this time.” She wanted him to know that she was good, not a cheat.

      Up till now there’d been no money wagered. Clair was merely demonstrating, proving her ability to do what she said she could do. Men liked the notion of taking on a woman. They got all loud and know-itall and took for granted that they could win.

      Mostly, Clair was lucky. Though ever since Texas, well, her luck had taken a turn for the worse. Now, there was an understatement if ever she’d heard one. Ever since Texas her luck had been harder to find than an ace high straight. All of which was why her bankroll consisted of exactly fifty-seven dollars. Not a lot when you have to be your own banker.

      “One dollar,” the man said, tossing the money on the table.

      “Look, we don’t have to—”

      “One dollar. Put up or shut up.”

      Reluctantly, Clair matched his bet.

      Six more hands and she was up by eight dollars, which was a lot of money; it was a week’s room rent and a couple of dinners.

      Could it be? Was her luck changing? Something was happening. She glanced appreciatively around the worn-out saloon once more. Maybe it was one Scarlet Lady to another, this change in her luck. Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to question it, just enjoy it.

      When he started to deal another round, she stopped him with a touch on his sleeve. “So how about it?”

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