The Honour-Bound Gambler. Lisa Plumley

favorite of professional gambling men—that dangled at its tail…and wondering if he could win it.

      Seeing no other choice, Cade nodded. He ambled to the alleyway with the boy leading the way. They set their wager.

      “I’m in a hurry.” Cade nodded. “Go on and roll.”

      Smartly, the boy refused. “Let me see your nickel first.”

      Obligingly, Cade produced a coin. On the verge of throwing it in their makeshift kitty, he frowned. “Tell you what,” he said in a tone of studied carelessness. “A nickel’s not much of a bet. I’ll put up my coat in this bargain, too.” He was happy to forfeit the damn thing if it would keep this urchin warm for the coming wintertime. That was the least his problematic conscience demanded. “Just to keep things interesting.”

      “Yeah?” The boy jabbed up his chin. His eyes gleamed with wanting Cade’s warm coat, but his decidedly unchildlike sense of skepticism demanded more. “What do you want of mine, then?”

      Cade thought about it. “I want those fine dice of yours.”

      Reluctantly, the scamp examined his pair of clinkers. He’d probably been earning all the sustenance he had with them. He appeared disinclined to part with them. But the kid would be better off without those cheaters in his hands. They’d only get him in trouble. Nobody was likely to keep the boy from earning some much-needed money with fast gambling—and truthfully, Cade wasn’t inclined to try—but at least the practice could be made safer. With a keener pair of loaded or expertly shaved dice—like the pair Cade kept ready in his coat pocket, for instance—the boy’s subterfuge would be less detectable. All Cade had to do was slip them to the little sharper, easy as pie.

      If the morals of helping a child to cheat were supposed to have bothered him, Cade guessed he was past repentance. Because this boy reminded him of his brother—of those hellacious orphan trains the two of them had been shoved onto and the hopes they’d had crushed for all those long-ago months—and he’d be damned if he’d let one small boy shiver for the sake of his own need for a heavenly reward.

      Besides, the boy’s future marks weren’t any concern of Cade’s. Any man who would set out to purposely bilk a down-on-his-luck child at gambling deserved to lose a few coins. Cade wasn’t that man. But the boy didn’t know that and never would.

      At the child’s continuing reluctance to strike a weightier wager, Cade heaved a sigh. “No deal? Fine. I’m late already.”

      “Oh? You goin’ to Miss Benson’s gala benefit?”

      “You stalling for time? It’s an easy bet. Yes or no?”

      The boy toed the dirt. He eyed Cade’s coat. “Add in that nice watch of yours too, an’ you got yourself a good wager.”

      Against all reason, Cade admired the boy’s pluck. “I won this watch in the biggest game of my life. It’s sentimental.”

      “You sayin’ no? ’Cause I ain’t familiar with sentiment.”

      If Cade had been a softer man, that admission would have broken his heart. As it was, he only sobered his expression, then shook his head. “You can’t have my watch.”

      The boy shrugged. Appearing resigned, he shook his fistful of rigged dice. With elaborate showmanship, he yelled, “Hold on to yer britches then, sir! Here comes the first roll, gents!”

      Too late, Cade realized they’d drawn a clump of onlookers. In the shadows cast by the setting sun, four strangers watched as the dice spewed from the boy’s hand, rolled on the ground, bounced theatrically from the nearest lumber wall, then stopped.

      A five-spot and a one-spot winked up. Another roll, then.

      Cannily, the boy let himself lose the first several throws. All the while, he kept up an animated pitch—a talk meant to reel in Cade and keep him wagering even after he began losing. Such tactics were all part of the game—a prelude to the inevitable swindle after which the boy would walk away victorious.

      If a grown man had tried such tactics on Cade, he wouldn’t have been so patient. There was a reason he carried a derringer, two wicked blades and a surfeit of suspicion wherever he went.

      As the alleyway grew darker and the dice rolled on, side bets sprung up among the spectators. Money rapidly changed hands; good-natured insults were traded along with the wagers. Cade wasn’t surprised. In the West, gambling was as common as breathing. After all, what was mining if not wagering that you’d find more gold than dirt in the nearby hills? Compared with wielding a pickax, pitching dice was hardly backbreaking.

      As the dice rolled again, a sharp breeze whirled into the alleyway. The boy shivered. So did Cade. He’d upped the ante on their wager several times already. Now it was time to end this.

      “My turn.” Cade accepted the dice. Deftly, he switched them for the pair from his coat pocket. He rolled. Then he swore.

      Exactly as he’d planned, he’d lost everything.

      “I won! I won!” the kid crowed. “I get your coat, mister!”

      The boy’s eyes shone up at him. In that moment, Cade didn’t mind that he’d made himself late for the Grand Fair. Then the urchin deliberately schooled his expression into his previous toughness, Cade remembered that he was a hard-nosed gambler who was in town only long enough to find the man he’d hunted through several states and territories…and the world righted itself.

      “Tough break,” a bystander commiserated. “You was just coming back, mister. You ain’t got no kind of luck, do you?”

      At that, Cade grinned, pinned by an unexpected sense of irony. This time, with the boy, he’d lost on purpose. But he hadn’t enjoyed his usual run of good luck lately—that was true.

      In fact, if his current unlucky streak continued, Cade didn’t know what he’d do. He was so close to finagling a way into the high-stakes gambling circuit he’d been chasing. He desperately needed to keep up with that league of professionals.

      It was the only way to find Whittier. He ran with that circuit; if not for his vaunted appearances at the table, he might as well have been a ghost. The minute rumors had flown that he’d been spotted here, in Morrow Creek, Cade had pulled foot for the town, too, hoping to catch up with him.

      Besides, Cade had already tried everything else he could think of to track the man. His more legitimate search methods had turned up nothing.

      “Well, it’s like I always say,” Cade told the bystanders, “if you must play, decide upon three things at the start—the rules of the game, the stakes…and the quitting time.” As he spoke, he slipped off his overcoat. He dropped it, covertly divested of all the items he wanted to keep, on the boy’s shoulders. “Now it’s quitting time.”

      “What? You ain’t even gonna try to win your money back?”

      “Not tonight.” Cade turned away. Behind him, he heard two awestruck whistles and several gruff, gossipy murmurs. Whoever said women were the only ones with flapping jaws was dead wrong.

      “Hell! I’d say we got ourselves a new sporting man in town, boys!” one of the local men said with a chortle. “And he’s droppin’ money like he’s got holes in his pockets, too.”

      The urchin ignored the chattering men. He chased down Cade, the oversize coat trailing on the ground behind him, then tugged at his suit sleeve. “Hey, mister! I know I won and all, but…I don’t reckon you meant to leave this behind. I found it in your coat pocket.”

      He held up a wad of greenbacks, fastened with an ivory clip, which Cade had won off a cotton merchant down South.

      Cade had meant to leave that money with the ragamuffin. He didn’t have much use for his winnings—aside from their ability to stake his reputation, admit him into the elite high rollers’ circle and eventually get him invited into their next private faro tournament. If he was lucky, that’s where he’d find Whittier.