The Gambler

The Gambler, Willow Creek book 3

Copyright © 2012 Lily Graison

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic,
photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written
consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form
of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and
without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

The right of Lily Graison to be identified as
the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First Digital edition May 2012

First Edition

All characters in this publication are purely
fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

Chapter One

1870 - Winter - Idaho Territory

He was going to die. Tristan knew it the
moment he heard the gun hammer being pulled back. Sweat broke out
on his brow. Things were about to get ugly as sin and there wasn't
anything he could do about it. Lifting his gaze, he stared at the
man across the table. Just his luck he’d find another sore
loser.

A glance down at his cards and he wondered if
it was worth it. He smiled to himself when he saw his hand. It was.
He drummed one finger on the table and reached for his chips,
tossed in half of what he had and ignored the whispered comments.
Let them think him stupid. He bit his tongue, staring without
blinking at the man in front of him and discreetly lowered his left
arm, his fingers twitching beside the holster at his hip.

The man grinned at him and leaned back in his
seat. “I know what you’re doin’ boy, and it aint gonna work.”

Tristan didn’t say anything. He stared the
man in the eye and waited, tuning out the commotion inside the
small saloon. The tinny piano-music filled the room with a lively
atmosphere and the melody joined the ruckus of laughter, feminine
squeals from the girls in their colorful dresses and the occasional
shout from someone about to come face to fist with another sore
loser.

The game started like any other, with a mix
of ranchers, cowpokes and those thinking they were lucky enough to
hit it big. Tristan knew they weren’t. He’d been playing since he
was old enough to hold cards and luck had nothing to do with
it.

He knew every nuance the players made, how to
read their body language, their facial expressions, and knew when
to keep playing and when to fold. This guy, the one across the
table from him, had to be the easiest he’d ever read.

His every move was written across his face.
His eyes were too bright, he licked his lips anxiously and his gaze
kept flicking from his cards to the chips scattered across the
table. He had a good hand, whatever it was, but it wasn’t as good
as his.

He eyed the man again. He was sweating, now.
Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead and he licked his lips as
he studied his cards before glancing at the chips. Tristan looked
too. It was enough cash to choke his horse and his insides were a
bundle of knots. If he won this hand, it would be his single
biggest win, ever.

“All or nothing?” The man looked up with wide
eyes. He produced a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, opened it
and laid it on top of the chips littering the table. “A piece of
property sweeter than a young virgin's tits. You in or out?”

Tristan craned his neck to look at the paper.
It was a property deed, one hundred acres of wooded Idaho soil. He
had no use for that but the chips under the deed could set him up
for a good long time. He looked at his remaining chips. It was an
obscene amount of money but it was easy to replace. If he backed
out now, he’d look a right coward, and there wasn’t an Avery in
history who could be tagged with that moniker.

Besides, his hand couldn’t be beat.

He pushed the remainder of his chips in and
inclined his head. “Show me what you’ve got, ole’ timer.”

The man laughed and slung his cards down on
the table. He was holding a straight, just as Tristan thought he
was, and he tipped his head forward, acknowledging the hand. He
watched the old man laugh, heard the others gathered around the
table congratulate him before the man reached for the pile of chips
on the table, his arms surrounding the bundle, the chips making a
soft tinkling sound as the man started dragging them toward
him.

Tristan laid his cards down. “Not so fast,
old man.”

The silence that followed caused the hair on
the back of Tristan's neck to stand on end. He thumbed the strap
holding his pistol in the holster loose and waited, his fingers
twitching. When the old man looked up, his face red and splotchy,
Tristan saw a vein bulge in his forehead.

“A royal flush?” The man stood, his chair
falling backwards to slam into the floor. He looked up, those wide,
drunken eyes bloodshot and filled with fury. “You cheatin' little
piece of shit!”

He reached for the gun hanging near his hip
and Tristan pulled his and leveled the barrel with the man’s chest.
“Don’t do it, old man.” He eyed the furious man across the table
and wondered just how far he'd get with his winnings before he was
shot in the back. He didn't wait around to find out. The mingled
whispers grew in volume as he collected his winnings and cashed
out, leaving the saloon at a fast clip.

The street was dark and his booted feet made
a loud pop across the wooden sidewalk. The occasional shout echoed
across the street from the many gaming and whorehouses lining both
sides of the road and Tristan let his gaze roam in every direction.
When the hotel came into view, the relief he felt was almost
orgasmic.

It was short lived. He heard someone behind
him a moment later, their boots hitting the wooden sidewalk with a
soft thump. Tristan laid his left hand on the butt of his pistol.
The urge to turn around and look behind him was strong but he
resisted.

The alley up ahead was dark with shadows. His
heart raced as he quickened his steps, ducking between the
buildings. He readjusted his hat, pulled the pistol and waited.

It took only seconds for the drunken man to
reach him. When Tristan saw him round the corner, he lashed out,
smashing his fist into the side of the man's head. The drunk
staggered, fell back into the wooden crates lining the building
opposite him and everything seemed to go in slow motion then. The
flare of light caused Tristan to blink, the red and blue flash was
followed by an ear piercing ringing inside his head as the old man
took a shot at him. Tristan reacted without pause, lifting his colt
and pulling the trigger.

He didn't miss.

The old man went down, his gurgled breath
wheezed out with a bloody cough and Tristan didn't wait around to
see if the old man was dead. He turned, stepped back onto the
sidewalk and walked quickly to the hotel.

Ten high-stakes games and two deaths in one
month. That was enough trouble to last him a lifetime. He glanced
behind him, nervously waiting for someone to yell about the
shooting and knew he needed to lie low for a while, let his name
die on the lips of those he’d bled dry. His mind swirled with
possibilities of where he could go. None of them appealed to him.
There was only one place he could get as far away from the gambling
scene as he needed to.

Home.

He crossed the street, his thoughts on Willow
Creek and saw movement in the darkened alley between the hotel and
general store. He slowed his steps, laid his left hand on the
revolver at his hip and crossed in front of the alley cautiously.
He saw nothing and realized he was still nervous. His insides were
jumpy and he was seeing things.

Walking quicker, he entered the hotel, jogged
up the steps and walked to his room without slowing. Once inside
his room, he sighed in relief.

He rubbed his face, felt the grime of sweat
on his brow and let out a weary sigh before walking across the room
to sit down. He took several long breaths and tried to calm his
racing heart. It took longer than it should have but when he could
breathe normally again, the enormity of what he’d just done tore a
laugh from him. “Son of a bitch.”

Reaching into his pockets for the money, he
grinned when he saw it. The land deed fell out with it and he
picked it up, looking it over. One hundred acres. What in the world
was he going to do with land in Idaho? He laughed. Life just got
sweeter every damn day.

He stared at the deed, his mind rolling over
the possibilities before he realized he could sell it. Of course,
it could be a worthless piece of land no one would ever want. Might
have been why the old man threw it into the pot. He’d have to take
a look at it to know.

Staring at the deed, he was taken back to the
alley and the old man he'd shot. His joy at winning dimmed. He
sighed. Tonight’s game was the second that month that had ended in
bloodshed. Luckily for him, both times had seen him walking away,
but he wasn’t fool enough to think it would always be that way. One
of these nights, someone would be faster and he’d be dead. Or
caught and hung for murdering those stupid enough to pull their gun
on him.

He tossed the money, and the deed aside, laid
back across the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He felt old all
of a sudden. He didn’t think being twenty-six would make a person
feel like they’d lived half their life already but for some reason,
he did. And he still had things to do before he met his maker. He
wanted to see his family again. Check on his pa to see if he’d ever
got better. Travel a bit and meet a nice girl. Maybe settle down
someday and have a few babies. He laughed. “Nah.”

Sitting up he pulled off his coat and vest,
draped them across the foot of the bed and took his boots off. He
needed to leave first thing in the morning. The less he saw of this
town the better.

He picked up his winnings, his gaze falling
on the land deed again. He needed to see that property he now
owned, too. He’d find out where it was and swing by on his way out
of town. At least he’d have something to show his brothers when he
got back home. Lord knew they wouldn’t be happy to see him.

* * * *

The room was lit in filtered moonlight.
Emmaline hurried inside, shutting the door behind her. She waited
until her eyes adjusted then turned, faced the bed, and looked at
the man lying there. He appeared to be naked, the sheet bunched low
around his hips gave her a faint glimpse of a taunt stomach. His
chest and face was bathed in shadow and she stood for long minutes,
just staring, before she took a step.

The floor creaked under her feet and she
stilled, her gaze searching and finding the face of the sleeping
man. He didn’t move. She crept closer to the bed, looking at the
top of the table next to it. It was empty.

Turning her head, she searched the room,
looking for anything he might conceal his belongings in. She
spotted it a few moments later. A large carpetbag on the chair by
the window. She crossed the room, pulled the flap and peered
inside.

The usual traveling accessories were there.
Clothes, a shaving kit, a few letters. She dug her hand deeper,
searching for his purse and clenched her jaw when she found nothing
but a small bottle rattling around in the bottom of the bag.

“Looking for this?”

She froze, her eyes wide as she stared at the
wall in front of her. The clicking of a gun hammer being pulled
back echoed in the silence a moment later. She swallowed the lump
forming in her throat and let go of the bag.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

Inhaling a calming breath, she turned,
lifting her gaze to his face.

He bared his teeth, the whiteness gleaming in
the moonlight shining through the window, and crossed his free arm
over his chest. “Please, do tell me what you’re doing in my room?
More precisely, why you’d be stupid enough to try and rob me?” When
she didn’t answer, he scowled. “And make it quick. I've little
patience this evening.”