Wild Card. Susan Amarillas

temper of hers was getting the best of her. She figured she’d done about all anyone could do to be fair, more than fair. Her conscience was clear.

      “Have it your way.” She counted out a hundred—all the money she had on the table plus an emergency gold piece she kept sewn in the lining of her reticule.

      Bill grinned Christmas-morning big. He put down the cards one at a time as though to savor the victory. “Straight, jack high,” he announced to everyone at once. There were gasps from those present, smiles on most of the faces as all eyes turned to her.

      Clair looked at him directly and said, “Four aces.”

      Chapter Two

      Rain came down harder than a springtime waterfall. It poured off the brim of Jake’s hat and ran in rivulets down his tan slicker, soaking the black wool of his trousers where it was exposed below the hem. It seeped through every opening around his collar and cuffs and generally annoyed the hell out of him.

      Overhead the sky was gunshot gray; ominous clouds were snagged on the tops of the mountains and showed no sign of easing away. The rain beat down the buffalo grass and made puddles in the loamy soil.

      Jake shifted in the saddle and tucked the last of his breakfast into his mouth. Breakfast—cold jerky and no coffee. No way in hell could he build a fire in this downpour.

      “Looks like we’re in for a long one, Tramp,” he said to his gelding as they trudged steadily through the storm. He was headed northwest.

      Lightning flashed across the sky, arcing like a long, bony finger pointing the way. Thunder crashed. The packhorse neighed and balked at the sound, pulling the rope Jake had tied to the saddle horn tight against his leg.

      “Hey,” he snarled, grabbing the lead and yanking on it where it cut into his thigh. He turned and glared at the horse and the grim cargo that was strapped to the animal’s back. There, wrapped in canvas, was the body of the man he’d sought, the man he’d killed. Ben Allshards.

      Jake had been out here alone for the better part of a week chasing Allshards and the man’s partner. He’d followed them from one hole to another, always a half day behind them, always pushing to catch up. He’d finally closed in at Jensen’s, a soddy saloon on what was commonly called the outlaw trail. But Allshards had spotted Jake, and he and his partner had slipped out the back door. To make matters worse, they’d split up.

      Jake had had to make a choice. Too bad for Allshards—he’d won the toss.

      The wind picked up, sending the rain swirling in odd directions, water pelting Jake on the side of his face. He flipped up his collar and turned his head away. “Damn.”

      For two more days and nights Jake had followed wherever Allshards had led. With no sleep, and eating in the saddle, Jake had nearly run old Tramp into the ground, a dangerous thing to do in this unforgiving country. But he’d be damned if he’d give up.

      Allshards had broken the law. No one broke the law in Jake McConnell’s territory and got away with it. First and last, Jake was a lawman, second-generation lawman. He believed in justice and fair play, and mostly he believed in the law. Rules to live by or, in an outlaw’s case, rules to die by.

      Late yesterday he’d cornered Allshards in a canyon near Angel’s Peak, a strange outcrop of rocks that shot up a hundred feet out of the prairie floor like some misplaced giant spike. Allshards must have figured he could hole up in the small cave at the base. Maybe he figured Jake would get tired, what with the rain and all, and pack it in. Hell, the man had said as much in a little shouting match they’d had along about sundown yesterday.

      Now, Jake might be a by-the-book lawman, but nobody ever said he wasn’t fair.

      He’d tried to get the man to surrender, had talked to him for quite a while on the subject, but Allshards hadn’t been buying. He’d probably known he was facing a rope for killing that bank teller.

      Right after the sun went down, the outlaw had made a break for it and Jake, left with no choice, had done the job the good people of Carbon County paid him a hundred and fifty a month for.

      Grim faced, he glanced back at the tarp-covered body once more, the feet bobbing up and down with each slogging step of the horse. Hell of a way for a man to finish his life, he thought with a touch of sadness for the man, and perhaps for himself.

      He dragged in a long, slow breath, the slightest hint of sage tangy on the air, and let it out slowly, feeling the tension ease in his shoulders and gut. Adjusting the reins in his hand, he glanced upward and got a faceful of rain for the effort.

      Disgusted, he scanned the treeless horizon. Even the usually ever-present antelope were nowhere in sight. That town had to be close. He stood in the stirrups, the stiff leather groaning in response.

      Where the hell was Broken Spur?

      A quick look out the front window at the sky confirmed Clair’s concerns. The rain that had started during the night showed no sign of letting up. Water cascaded off the porch roof. Water pooled in the street. Water dripped from the leak in the ceiling near the end of the bar, plick-plopping into a metal bucket in a way that was beginning to irritate her nerves.

      As of ten-thirty yesterday, Clair Travers was the proud owner—a laughable overstatement—of this ramshackle saloon: peeling wallpaper, faded mirror, mismatched tables and all.

      Business was bad. Heck, there was no business. Bill, with all his belongings in a small trunk, had left on yesterday’s morning stage. She’d tried to talk to him, tried to give him back the Scarlet Lady. What the devil did she want with the a saloon?

      But Bill had had other ideas. It seemed he’d been thinking about California for quite a while, thinking about those summers without rain and winters without snow. Mostly, he’d been thinking about a certain woman who had a small apple orchard near the base of the sierra. He just hadn’t wanted to sell out to Slocum.

      No, he didn’t hold any hard feelings, he’d told her in a tone that lacked sincerity. She was sure there was a certain amount of deflated male pride involved in his willingness to leave.

      His parting remark, as he’d stepped up into the stage had been, “This town is too small for two saloons.”

      “Well, great, but what am I going to do with it, then?”

      “That’s your problem,” he’d said, and the stage had pulled out.

      So here she was, alone in an empty saloon.

      That drip had turned to a thready stream. Terrific. She went to get a larger bucket from the storage closet she’d discovered near the back. Bill had stashed everything in there, from food to mops.

      As she substituted one bucket for the other, she had to shake her head in wonder—maybe it was disgust. Both, probably.

      She needed to own a saloon about as much as she needed an anvil chained to her leg. She hefted the rain bucket to the back door and tossed the water into the mud behind the building. Kicking the door closed, she turned.

      You aren’t staying.

      No. Of course she wasn’t She was wanted by the law, for heaven’s sake.

      Her mind flashed on a man’s leering features, his hands pawing at her body as his mouth covered...

      She jumped as though she’d been struck. Heart pounding in her chest, she sucked in a couple of deep breaths.

      Abruptly she tossed the empty bucket down with a ringing thud and, needing to move, strode across the room, ten long strides from front to back. She pulled open the front doors and stood there, watching the rain splash and puddle in the street. The chilly air penetrated the worn yellow cotton of her shirtwaist, and she rubbed her upper arms. After a minute or so, she felt calmer and stepped back, looking at the room.

      It’s yours, lock, stock and leak.

      This was something, wasn’t