The smell of whiskey and tobacco—the soft glow of the gilt frames of provocative paintings and of gleaming mirrors—all were a pleasant change from the stale air and faded wanted posters papering the sheriff’s office. Rhys paused inside a pair of bright red swinging doors long enough to take an appreciative glance at the plush interior of the Diamond Saloon.
A faro game was running in a back corner. A round of poker had started up nearby. A puffy-eyed saloon girl with hennaed hair sat on the carpeted stairs. Her bored expression vanished when she saw Rhys. The fine clothes, the well-groomed look indicated a fat bankroll she might tap into. She got up, gave herself a shake. As he started toward the bar she started toward him.
“You’re that Frenchman that came in on the stage day before yesterday, ain’t you?” she said, sidling up close enough to rub shoulders and give him the benefit of her strategically dabbed-on perfume as he reached for the beer he’d ordered.
“Oui, mademoiselle,” he said with a smile and a nod intended to convey politeness but not interest.
“You’re the one that beaned that holdup man, ain’t you?” asked the girl, unwilling to be ignored.
“Oui,” he said, this time looking her way.
“I’m Honor.” She giggled. “Don’t have any, just called that.” Having made the eye contact she wanted, Honor took the liberty of placing her hand on Rhys’s arm. “I’d be pleased to share a beer with you...”
“Rhys,” he said. “Rhys Delmar.” He slid a coin to the bartender. “A beer for Honor, if you please.”
The girl smiled like she’d won a prize then cupped her hands to her mouth and gave a shout. “Sally!” Honor looked toward the gallery railing onto which opened half a dozen red doors. “Maisie!” she called. “Come on down here!”
Two girls peeped out from doorways above, one who looked young enough to be in school, one marginally past her prime. The dresses they wore were replicas of the red and black satin Honor had on. The ruffled skirts had been scandalously shortened almost to the knee and the bodices were skimpy satin covered corselets held up mostly by imagination.
“Mesdemoiselles,” Rhys made a sweeping bow and ordered beers for Sally and Maisie. He knew he was getting the newcomer’s treatment, that the girls were testing him for generosity and that soon one of them would suggest a tryst upstairs. He had been in enough bordellos and taverns to know the way of things and to know that a man had to be careful how he extricated himself from the clutches of sporting women. They had long memories.
“You gonna be in Wishbone a while, honey?” Honor spoke silkily. “We don’t get many gents with class. Not nearly enough.”
“I’ll be around a while,” Rhys told her. “Long enough to get to know all of you better.” He winked and got a round of giggles from the girls. “We’ll take care of that sometime when I don’t have my mind on the cards.”
“It’s not your mind we’re interested in,” Maisie told him. For one who appeared so young, the slender, dark-haired girl, had a boldness that indicated she’d had years of practice at her trade. Smiling an invitation at him, she reached a slim hand to the black locks that hung in curls over his collar. “You’re a handsome one, I’ll say that for you.”
“I ain’t never seen eyes that purty, not even on a woman,” Sally, a blonde by choice, chimed in. She nudged Maisie away and stepped up close, past the line of propriety. With a hand to his chin she turned his head slightly to the left and then to the right. “Bein’ pale blue like that, they kinda make me think of moonlight on a warm night.”
“Ummm,” Maisie said over her shoulder. “They kinda make me wanta melt.”
Taking Sally’s and Maisie’s hands in his Rhys lifted them and touched his lips to the backs of each. “Merci,” he said “you are sweet, both of you.”
A touch of jealousy set in with Honor who, after watching the exchange of compliments, had decided that she found Rhys Delmar first and didn’t want to share him after all. “Leave him be,” she said shooing the other girls away. “It’s poker he’s after today. You heard him.” Grumbling and reluctant, but conceding to a code of finders-keepers the girls had among them, Sally and Maisie left to ply their art on a couple of ranch hands who had come in after Rhys. Honor, anxious to ingratiate herself with the man she had decided might be worth her time even if he was penniless, caught him by the hand and led him toward a table of four men who had just broken out a fresh deck. “These boys keep a game going night and day,” she told Rhys. “And they’re always lookin’ for another player to bring some money in since all they do is swap theirs back and forth. Reckon you can hold your own with them?”
“I can only try,” Rhys said, grateful for the girl’s intervention as she introduced him around and let the foursome know he was looking for a game. Like Honor had said, they welcomed any addition to the pot. One of them pulled a fifth chair to the table and Rhys sat down. He found the men a friendly bunch, not much challenge to his ability but good enough to make for an interesting game.
Eventually Honor got tired of teetering at the back of his chair and left to socialize with other customers of the Diamond. A few hours later Rhys had pocketed a good share of the pot and was wondering how Lucien had fared. He’d also come to the conclusion that he was not likely to come by a fortune at the tables in Wishbone, not if these men were indicative of the lot he’d find willing to be dealt a hand. For unlike the wealthy and jaded men he had matched his luck with in Europe, these men were drifters and ranch hands with only a few dollars in their pockets. The stakes were hardly high enough to make the hours spent with them worthwhile.
“I’m foldin’,” one of the players said. He’d identified himself as Spud, a part-time trail cook who spent half his time at the tables trying to stretch his pay. He’d pared it down today.
“Me too,” another said, dropping his cards to the tabletop. He was a cowboy who had gotten too old for the range and, like Spud, had turned to poker-playing to fill the time. He was called Lucas, one of the few Arizonans Rhys had met without an inexplicable nickname.
Rhys bade them farewell, then sat alone at the table and tallied his winnings as the other players left for beers and a stretch. The amount was even more disappointing than he’d first thought. He could provide for meals and more comforts in a room, than he’d found in the bunkhouse at the Gamble ranch. But at this rate, unless he devoted years to the endeavor he would scarcely win enough to pay his passage back to London.
Disappointed, he was debating the wisdom of temporarily moving on to a larger town, where the stakes might be higher, when he saw Honor wending her way toward him. For no discernible reason he began comparing the red-haired girl to Teddy Gamble, pitting Honor’s provocative smile against Teddy’s acid grin, the exaggerated sway of Honor’s full hips against Teddy’s purposeful stride. They were nothing alike, one so accommodating a man could lead her anywhere, the other so antagonistic a man had better watch his step.
From the back of his mind emerged the thought that Teddy Gamble would be happy to see him leave Wishbone, even temporarily, happy to have him out of her way. He could almost hear her shouting “good riddance” after him. She was a spitfire, that one, and, he admitted, the first woman he’d ever met who evidently wanted to shoot him on sight.
A faint smile briefly twisted his mouth. How could he walk away from a woman like that? He didn’t see how he could, not if he wanted to keep what was left of his bruised and battered pride. Teddy Gamble was a woman who needed taming. And he was the man to do it. He laughed softly to himself. Turning all that shrewish fervor to amour had an irresistible appeal. He made a wager with himself that by the time they came to terms on the business regarding the stage line, he’d have her bedded and begging him to stay. That she-cat might think she would get the best of him—and maybe she would, but it wouldn’t be what she expected. The faint smile deepened, giving Honor a lift of spirit that would have been dashed had she known his thoughts were on another woman.
“Thought you’d like another beer,” she said sweetly, easing into one of the vacant chairs and sliding a foam-capped glass toward him. “You’ve been at it for hours.”
“Merci, my chérie,” he said. “I am thirsty.”
“I like that French talk,” Honor said. “Most of these cowboys got dirty mouths when they talk to us girls. Your way is real refreshin’.” She’d slid close to him and laid her hand over the one he rested atop the table, but abruptly her bubbly smile vanished and she pulled her hand away. Hastily she got to her feet.
“Honor?” Rhys was mystified.
“ ’Scuse me,” she said, shoving a chair out of her way.
Rhys turned about, wondering what had gotten into the girl. He saw her red skirt and petticoats swish from side to side as she hurried toward a doorway at the rear of the room. A dark-haired man waited a few steps inside. When Honor was through the door, he shut it behind her. The Diamond’s boss, he assumed, hoping he hadn’t gotten the girl in trouble by distracting her from her moneymaking activities. He would do what he could to rectify the matter. He owed the girl. She’d gotten him in the poker game and, if not well-fixed, he was better set than when he’d come in.
He’d give her a tip. She deserved that and it ought to ease things with her boss.
As it turned out, the latter was not necessary. Honor came strutting back after a few minutes and she was smiling bigger than ever. “Miss me?” she asked.
“Like the sunshine,” Rhys told her. He looked toward the office she’d left. The dark-haired man stood in the doorway leaning against the jamb. “Is anything wrong?”
“Not a thing,” she said. “Mr. Adams—he’s our boss—wanted to talk to me for a few minutes. Said I was one of his best girls. ’Course I knew that.” She laughed. “Had enough of those trail riders tell me so. Anyhow, Mr. Adams noticed you playin’ cards and how good you were at it. He said a man that can play like you do deserves a good cigar.” Very slowly she reached two fingers into the V between her breasts and pulled out a long hand-wrapped cigar. “He sent you one of his special-made ones,” she said.
Rhys glanced behind him and nodded his thanks to the dark-haired man standing there. “This Adams owns the Diamond?” Rhys asked Honor.
“He owns the Diamond and lots of things. Lots of people, too.”
“People?” Rhys pinched the end off the cigar and got a match from his pocket. He lit the cigar and puffed deeply on it, enjoying the fineness and quality.
Honor made a nervous glance at the closed door of the office. “I didn’t mean that,” she said softly. “A lot of people work for Mr. Adams, that’s all I meant.”
“Speaking of work,” Rhys said. “Would Adams mind if you took off long enough to lunch with me?”
“Well, I—” She made another nervous glance at the office door.
“I’ll pay for your time, if that is what bothers you,” Rhys assured her. “But lunch and a pretty smile is all I want.”
Honor gave the smile immediately, the first genuine one he’d seen on her face. “You don’t mind if we order something up to my room, do you?” The girl clutched his arm possessively while making certain both Maisie and Sally saw that she had latched onto the Frenchman. “It would make the other girls real envious if they thought—”
He leaned in close and kissed her cheek, not displeased to have made a friend of the girl. She could be useful to him and clearly it had been a long time since a man had wanted anything other than sex from her. He liked Honor but did not feel a strong physical desire for her. Maybe because he sensed she needed a friend as much as he did—maybe because his intimate thoughts were of someone else. Whatever the reason, he felt no disrespect for Honor because of her occupation. She made her way the best she could just as he had always done.
Taking Honor’s hand in his he drew her to her feet. “Let them put their imaginations to the test then.”
Honor giggled and proudly led Rhys through the center of the saloon and toward the stairs. “We’re gonna have ourselves a fine time,” she said loudly.