Their laughter shifts into encouragement as more than oneman at the table starts calling for the owner of the voice to join them. The ruckus is enough that I almostdolook to see who it is anyway before Maddock reclaims my attention by reaching inside his coat to take hold of a document that he then slaps against my chest.
I grab it from him, unfolding it to glance at the contents and confirm he’s not completely full of it before I take the subsequently offered pen and lean over the table to add my signature below his.
“Everything to your satisfaction?” Maddock asks as I finish, clearly irked by my distrust as well as my disobedience. “You’ll have a seat now?”
“Of course,” I tell him, the corner of my mouth ticking up just to piss him off more as I stash the agreement in my pocketbook and sidestep him for the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him almost think to go after me again like he did outside the hotel before he changes his mind, likely not wanting to draw attention to the fact that he’s already losing.
One week, I tell myself after the bartender sets a tumbler of whiskey in front of me a few minutes later. I’ll have to make the half-full glass last all night if I want an excuse to be taking up space, especially on a night when the noise around me is growing at the same pace as the crowd.One week and then you’re out.
When I finally look back at Maddock’s game, I wonder if his dissatisfaction has lessened given that his table is already full even without me there, each seat claimed by either him, his men, the dealer, or one of the other poor souls that they roped into playing with them.
If Maddock were as smart as he prefers to think he is, he’d spread his posse out a bit. Have a few different games going at once to improve their chances of making it big, but that might interfere with Maddock’s desire to want tofeelbig by dominating the table. No matter how unnecessary that effortappears to be at first glance.
Of the three unfamiliar faces in the game, one is an older man who seems at ease enough I’d presume him to be local. Although it could also be that he simply isn’t concerned about any money he might lose tonight since the cigar he’s chewing probably cost more than some people make in a year.
The second is a grizzled cowhand, who very much looks like he’s lived his entire life on the trail and is tough enough to still be here to talk about it. The calluses on his hands are so thick that the cards catch on them when he tries to shuffle them around, and something tells me that he won’t throw away his survival streak on a bad hand.
All in all, a pair that is unlikely to cause Maddock, and thereforeme, much trouble. Although, I’m not sure I can say the same about the last one…
He’s harder to make out, yet I immediately identify him as the same man I caught a glimpse of walking into the hotel earlier, even though his face is still hidden from me beneath the brim of his pristine black hat that matches his coat, his vest, his pants, and…fuck’s sake, hisshirt. The man is head to toe in black, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s a preacher or a devil.
Suppose he could be both.
As if he can feel my attention on him, he looks up, his gaze connecting with mine just as the dealer passes a card his way, and I could swear the breath gets chased right out of my lungs.
It’s his eyes. I’m sure that’s what it is. Light blue in a way I’ve never seen before, but also calculating in a way that I definitely have.Shit.
Seeming equally caught off guard by me, his hand stalls over his new card for a few moments too long before hegrins, then swings his focus back to the table as the players start placing their bets.
Maybe I imagined it. Or maybe I didn’t…
No, I canfeelit. Canseeit in that half second between his losing hands, in that fleeting look of triumph that shouldn’t be on his face but is when no one else is looking, in the way hetap, tap, tapshis fingers on the table when Maddock is talking and he’s feeling impatient.
No one seems to notice but me. Not remotely concerned enough to pick up on his tells when they don’t believe they need to know them to win. However, the longer the game goes on, the more convinced I am that their faith is misplaced.
I’m also convinced heknowsI’m watching, because every now and again, I catch him watching me, too. Those fuckingeyes. Every time they turn in my direction, something crackles beneath my skin. An awareness. Christ, practically a fucking premonition that tells me to keep a wise distance.
“Well, it really has been thrilling, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I must depart.” The man in black’s voice carries over to me again after a few long hours have passed, the reach of his words helped by the fact that he’s now standing, bracing himself over the table as he gathers the small amount he has left after finally winning the last hand. “My heart simply isn’t at the table this evening.”
I roll my eyes, shift in my seat, listen to the round of protests from the other men at the table, the pleas even from the old cowboy that he stay for one more game or, at the very least, join them again tomorrow. He kindly waves them off as he takes his coat from the back of his chair, making a good show of putting up a fight until he, of course, gives in and agrees.
“Whether it’s heart or luck,” Maddock says, standing too with a broad smile and extending his hand with a laugh. “For your sake, I hope you get your hands on at least one of them by tomorrow.”
Without hesitating, the man clasps Maddock’s palm in his, but his eyes flick my way once more, finding me and holding my gaze as he hesitates near the door. “You know,” he says back, “I’m still hoping for both.”
I follow him.
Before I can stop myself, I’m out of my chair and walking out the back door of the saloon, planning to loop around to the street so that I cankeepfollowing without anyone—including him—being the wiser. As I round the corner into the side alley, my hand is already hovering over my gun, the pace of my steps picking up as I consider how far down the street he could have made it.
Not very far. As it turns out.
“Oh, Ireallydo hope you’re looking for me.”
I jump at the disembodied voice, quickly drawing my pistol and pivoting to face the figure leaning against the wall at the mouth of the alley, the one who is almost impossible to see in the low light from the street’s oil lamps.
I must have walked right past him without realizing it. All that damn black is certainly not helping, although the fact that he seems entirely unconcerned at having a gun drawn on him mightbe even more unsettling. He appears almostamusedbefore he glances toward the street then back at me. His eyebrows rise as if to say,You sure you want to do this here?
In answer, I step back into the alley, drawing even with him as the shadows swallow me up. My vision adjusts in time for me to see him push off the wall and move toward me in return.