The Rustler. Linda Miller Lael

probably finished washing the dishes by then, and they’d be wondering what was keeping her.

      She stood before her father, still looming in the darkened doorway, straightening the front of his long nightshirt as though it were one of the day coats he wore to the bank.

      “Our secret, Papa?” she asked.

      “There are too damn many secrets in this house.”

      “Papa—”

      “All right,” Ephriam said. “But I don’t like it. And I’m taking that boy fishing at the creek tomorrow, with or without your say-so.”

      Sarah’s eyes stung, and she smiled. “Fair enough,” she said.

      She walked her father back to his room, tucked him in like a child. Kissed his forehead. Still under the effects of the laudanum Doc had given him earlier, he dozed off immediately.

      When she descended to the kitchen, via the rear stairway, Doc and Owen were sitting at the pedestal table in the center of the room, playing cards. The pot was a pile of wooden matches.

      Interested, Sarah stood behind Owen’s chair and assessed his hand.

      “Five card stud,” Doc said. “Care to join us?”

      “I never play poker,” Sarah said. The little book in her skirt pocket seemed to pulse in protest.

      Doc merely chuckled.

      Sarah bent low and whispered in Owen’s ear. “Bet all your matchsticks. You’ve got a straight with ace high.”