Luke Thomason tried to wedge his mind from the nightmare that had gripped him for… he had no idea how long. There had been a woman—or had she been an angel? A woman with beautiful blond hair and a kind smile. Had she given him something to drink?
His mind tumbled backward and again he was trapped in that nightmare, unable to escape.
A kerosene lamp hung over the poker table, casting a yellow glow on the cards in Luke’s hand. He couldn’t believe his luck. He had another winning hand. With a pair of jacks and two eights and another card coming, he could end up with a full house; or if not, he still had two pairs. He glanced at the card lying facedown on the table. That card would tell the tale. Smoothly, he reached down, lifted it, and tucked the card among the others. A jack!
His mouth was dry, his palms were moist. He dared not move for fear of betraying his excitement. What was he doing here playing poker for high stakes when his experience had been limited to the bunkhouse at Godfrey’s ranch?
Slowly, he lifted his eyes, studying the faces of the men at the table, trying to read their eyes. They had acquired the poker faces he’d heard about, but then he’d been told he had one, too. With him, the inscrutable expression had been stamped on years before, by a determination to hide the ache from a heart that had been ripped in two.
The two men, directly to his left and right, wore range clothes. He sensed their lives were similar to his—dirt-poor ranch hands dreaming of wealth at the tables. The man opposite him was from Denver and a thoroughly unlikable sort.
Dressed in a black frock coat and white linen shirt, he was a small man, barely over five feet tall, with a superior attitude and an insulting manner. A nervous twitch pulled at the man’s thin face, and put constant movement into the close-set black eyes. Those eyes jumped from player to player, back to his cards, then to the chips on the table. The eyes shot to his dwindling stack of chips then sank again to the cards in his hand.
The city slicker with the money was losing badly. And Luke, drawing from instincts and a sharp mind, was winning it.
The two men beside him were down to a handful of chips. Luke studied the twin stacks of chips piled high before him.
He counted out an impressive stack and placed them in the center of the table. Their faces didn’t betray them, but he could feel the disappointment settling over the other players. He had just upped the price of poker, forcing a show of hands.
“I’m out,” the man next to him said, coming to his feet. “I’m not losing the rest of my money.”
The other ranch hand stood slowly, grabbing his one remaining chip and pocketing it quickly.
“Me, too.”
The city slicker stayed in the game, adding a stack of chips to the pile in the center.
Smoothly, Luke laid out his full house, and the little man’s eyes bulged. He began to cough, looking and sounding as though someone were choking him to death. His wrist went limp, dropping the cards onto the table. Luke was looking at two pairs. He had won again.
Luke was not a gambler by nature, and while the game was a challenge, he knew the danger as well. He was a poor, hardworking cowhand who had hit a streak of luck. But he knew when to quit.
He stood, gathering up his winnings. “Think I’ll cash in,” he said, glancing at the red-faced man across the table.
The little man leaped to his feet, sputtering with rage.
“You can’t quit now!”
Luke towered over him, his blue eyes narrowed. “Beg your pardon,” he drawled, “but I can quit anytime I want to…”
A soft touch moved across his forehead, and the vague aroma of wildflowers filled his nostrils. Was he lying in a meadow? If so, who was touching him? That touch had soothed him, calmed him, freed him at last from the nightmare. He sank deeper into the pillow and found the peaceful sleep he craved.