Rugged and Relentless (36 page)

“You’re trying to make sure I’m good enough to marry one of your women.” Williams mimicked Creed’s posture—knees bent, boots facing outward, and shoulders down and back as though relaxed. Only trouble was, the shorter man looked boxed in, as though keeping all his energy leashed. “I never attended a university, don’t come from a prestigious family, and don’t regret either one. What I do have is years of experience, a history of hard work, and the ability to protect what’s mine.”

Braden tensed. He hadn’t imagined the way Williams’s gaze flicked toward him when the cocksure lumberjack said that last bit. “The less you own, the easier it is to guard.”

Williams drew in a deep breath, too smart to rise to the bait. “That’s true, Mr. Lyman. And if it’s easy to guard a little, it’s difficult to protect a lot. You and your family here possess too much to safeguard without help. That’s the reason you put forth the ad, and the reason I’m here.”

“I respect honesty, Mr. Williams.”
Doesn’t mean I like you
.

“I’m an honest man. Ask whatever questions you want.”

“My grandma always told me to beware a man who says he’s honest, because he’s either lying to others or lying to himself. No one manages to tell the truth about everything.” Naomi smoothed her hair and gave a winsome smile. “Do you believe my granny’s advice, Mr. Williams?”

Braden closed his eyes. He knew if he met his cousin’s gaze, or saw Lacey’s startled glance, he’d start laughing.
I never heard Grandma Lyman say that
. He shook his head.
Only Naomi would twist a moral question to trap an opponent like this. It’s why I never argue or play chess with her
.

“Although no one succeeds every time, I believe a man who attempts honesty can be called an honest man.” Williams gave a catlike grin. “But, all told, yes, I believe your granny.”

“Now that’s an interesting answer, Mr. Williams.” Evie tilted her head. “By such logic, a man who attempts piety should be labeled pious, one who attempts to gain wealth would be rich, and so on until everyone on earth could be anything.”

“You twist my words, Miss Thompson. That isn’t my meaning.”

“Do you suppose”—Cora twirled a lock of red hair about her forefinger as she speculated—“that means he was dishonest?”

“It’s a moot point,” Lacey broke in. “Our granny never gave any such advice, so Mr. Williams shouldn’t have believed it. Naomi was giving one of those peculiar lessons of hers again, trying to show us it’s a mistake to assume
anyone
is honest.”

“How clever!” Cora beamed at his cousin. “But what do you suppose Mr. Williams makes of your ruse?”

“I’ll tell you what I think.” Williams got to his feet. “I like a woman who uses spunk to fight her battles and spirit to enjoy life. These sneak attacks and silly lessons don’t work. My first decision was best. I’ll take Miss Thompson.”

“And I’ll take your apology, Mr. Williams, for acting as though I’m a horse for auction.” Evie jumped from her chair.

“I apologize when I’m wrong, but I’ve not treated you as a horse, Miss Thompson.” He rose from his bench. “Though I admire your spirit, I’ve not so much as asked to see your teeth.”

She resisted the impulse to bare them at him, something warning her he’d take it as encouragement. Strange man.

“Insult the lady again, Williams, and you’ll lose a few of your own teeth.” Creed didn’t bother to stand when he made the threat, but somehow that made it all the more ominous.

“Since when does a woman find it insulting that a man wants to marry her? Miss Thompson’s a spirited woman with enough
fire and wit to keep a man from slipping into boredom.” Williams eyed her as though trying to piece together a puzzle. “I like what I see and chose her from the bunch as soon as I got off the train. If she doesn’t want a husband, why advertise for one?”

Good questions. Even worse, Williams answered whether or not there’s a man in town who wants to marry me for more than my cooking. He chose me before he knew I could make more than gruel and says clearly to anyone who asks that he admires my spirit, strength, feisty ways, or what have you. So why, Lord, does my stomach capsize at the very thought of wedding him?

“Because she wants the
right
husband.” Cora began tugging on the lock of hair she’d been twirling. “My sister and friends went about selecting their spouses this way so they’d find partners. Evie chooses which man she’ll accept.”

“She did the choosing when she listed her requirements in that ad. I fulfill them, and I’ve come to claim my prize.”

“She’s a prize, to be sure, but not yours to claim.” Catlike reflexes silent and sudden, Creed stood beside her.

Braden held up a hand to stop Williams from moving forward. “You can’t pick her up and carry her off, Mr. Williams.”

He could have said that some other way
. Evie refused to blush as abandoned plans to wreak vengeance upon her sister’s fiancé sprang to mind.
First Braden said hefty, and now this
.

“I could with strength to spare.” Williams cast an appreciative gaze her way, squared his shoulders, and made the muscles in his arms jump beneath his sleeves.

She let out a squeak of horror. Firstly, the idea of a man picking her up and slinging her around like a sack of potatoes meant he’d know exactly how much “heft” she had. But secondly, the entire image reminded her too much of the Sabine women carried off by Roman soldiers and wedded against their will.

I have more will than most
. Evie squared her own shoulders.
And heft, if it comes to that. It might do me good for a change
.

She also found it comforting that Creed looked ready to use
his fists if her overly determined suitor came another step closer.
No, wait. Creed’s starting toward Williams. That’s a mistake
.

Without another thought, she reached forward to curl her fingers in Creed’s sleeve, snagging him and halting his movement before it could start a brawl. Or, if not precisely start one, as Williams’ own belligerence held more fault for that, at least exacerbate the situation. Either way, Evie wouldn’t allow it.

They’d made strict rules about no fighting in town, and she wouldn’t let Creed be the one sent away from Hope Falls for it. Particularly not over a cretin like Williams.

“Don’t make mischief, Mr. Williams. Any smart man knows you don’t claim a prize like Evie.” Naomi’s wit defused the situation before it escalated to fists. “You have to win her.”

Eyes narrowed, Williams looked from Creed to Evie and back again. “So be it. Let the game begin.”

     TWENTY-SIX     

T
he Game played before him—a paltry example, to be sure, but Corbin expected no more from a logging camp bunkhouse. Not even one so outlandish as this, with its strange assortment of workmen at odds with themselves, the season, and each other.

The long room unrolled into levels of function. Two layers of bunks lined the walls, outlining the half-log deacon seat benches boxing in the center fire pit. Lanterns hung at intervals on pegs above bunks wherever occupants wanted, and none said a word about it so long as they went out at a decent hour. With generous quarters, they didn’t chafe for space.

Groups of men huddled on or around the benches, telling stories, throwing dice, whittling whatnots as they passed time before sleep. Those didn’t interest Corbin. High in his perch on the top bunk in the farthest corner, lamp wick pushed barely high enough for a faint glow, he ignored the pages of his book. As he’d done for two weeks, he turned an odd square coin over and over between his fingers, watching the men who played the Game. Memorizing their faces, their movements, the tells that would betray them when Corbin left his corner at last.

He never began the Game. Corbin considered it a sacrilege to
demand her favor. Instead, he bided his time, tested his strength by resisting the unworthy. He stayed faithful, knowing the Game would call him once again, give him the opportunity to prove himself the accomplished player he’d become.

He’d allow himself the small pleasure of an occasional round with the men. He’d win most often but throw a few hands occasionally to stay beyond suspicion. Already he’d come close to overplaying his disguise. Too little left him vulnerable with Granger tracking him, but too much left him less desirable to the women. They’d already shown more shrewdness than expected, setting up those probing interviews of theirs.

Not that the questions posed any trouble for him—Corbin had his background set up long before anyone asked. Always did as a matter of course, and it never failed to be useful. Situations changed, stories changed, but how to play the Game never did. Because the rules of the Game were taken from life—where people like these foolish women begged to be played.

If anyone remarked on his ability with the Game, or identified him as a follower, the women would ask uncomfortable questions. The ad specifically listed “God-fearing” as the first requirement for prospective husbands, and Corbin dealt only in the solid truth of here and now. Things he could manipulate.

The Game provided means for survival, offered constant challenges, and rewarded him for success. He didn’t fear some vague notion of anyone else’s god. Corbin feared losing the Game. Maintaining the facade that he cared for anything else took every ounce of the skills he’d honed over the past decade.

But Corbin judged it worth the effort. By the end of this match, Corbin Twyler planned to win the richest hand he’d ever played for.

“This isn’t some amusing diversion, Lacey.” Her cousin scolded her as though she herself hadn’t toyed with Mr. Williams two
days before. “These days will shape the rest of our lives.”

“I’m well aware of that, Naomi.” Lacey carefully stacked three cans atop the now-familiar target rock at the far end of the clearing, also aware that all three of her friends had followed her. “Why do I have a feeling you three planned to discuss something more than shooting during today’s practice?”

“High intelligence?” Cora offered the compliment as a sop.

“Or she knows us very well.” Evie’s dry response probably came closer to the truth, but Lacey liked Cora’s answer better.

“We can chitchat at any time.” She made for the other end of the clearing at a rapid pace. Not running, but not lollygagging either. If they hoped to nab her in an unpleasant conversation, Lacey planned to make them work at it.