Chapter One
1886
Dakota Territory
âHow long you gonna sit there staring at those cards, darling?â
The endearment was meant to irritate her, but Winston Ratcliff was a sharper, a player who gave the game a bad name, and therefore heâd been on Stacy Blackwellâs nerves long before heâd opened his mouth. Blocking out his sarcastic voice, she went right on studying her cards. The odds were in her favor.â¦
Know your odds, baby girl, but donât count on them. Count on your gut, itâll never steer you wrong. It knows more than your mind ever can. Those were Pappyâs words echoing in her mind, taught long ago on one of the many riverboats sheâd grown up on, and often repeatedâusually on a steamer chugging through muddy water.
A hefty pot sat in the center of the table: gold and silver coins, paper bills, a cheap watch dropped in by Chester Marks. None of which made her question her instincts. The sapphire-studded locket Winston had placed right smack in the middle of all that money, however, had her hesitating. The long chain had coiled into a cone atop the stones and now glistened in the light cast from the wall lanterns like a pile of gold in Founderâs Creekâif there ever could be gold in a creek that was dry half the year.
That necklace was hers, and she wanted it back. But the hard knot in her stomach said that, no matter what the odds, Winston had a better hand than her full house of aces over eights. Dagnabit! If he won this pot, heâd be able to play for hours without putting up the necklace again. She, too, could play for hours if not for Sheriff Jake McCrery. He was due back in town in less than an hour, and the first place heâd come looking for her was here, Ma Belleâs House of Worship. A completely different kind of worship than took place in the more respectable building with its towering steeple on the edge of town, but more regularly used in Founderâs Creek Township, Dakota Territory.
âCome on, girl, we ainât got all day,â Chester said, setting his empty mug on the table with a thud.
Stacy flashed the farmer a glare that said exactly what she thought of him and his big toe gambling. Just because a man got an itch didnât mean he should sit down at a table. It soured the game for those committed to gaming. Namely her.
âWhatâs it gonna be, darling? You in or not?â Winston asked, lighting up another one of his long cigars and puffing up a cloud of smoke before blowing a single ring to hover right over the necklace.
The glitter of the chain pulled at her. It was only thing sheâd ever been able to hold on to. Proof she had a familyâa parent, who in her own way, loved her. But she couldnât let Winston know that. No one could ever know that. All the more reason she couldnât let the good sheriff find her here.
Hiding her frustration, she shot a distasteful gaze straight across the table. âIâm not your darling, Ratcliff,â she said, with enough ire to dim the triumph in his beady eyes.
Setting her cards facedown on the table, she gathered her money, folding the bills before slipping them into the bottom of the satchel attached to her wrist. The coins went in next, all except for two gold ones. Those sheâd give to Faith Hickcomb. Lord knows the girl deserved it after schlepping drinks all day and working the rooms above half the night.
âToo rich for your blood, is it?â
Ratcliff had won a fair bit since arriving in town, so he thought he was a master of the game. In actuality, he had a lot to learn, and someday sheâd prove it to him and get her necklace back. Neither the cards nor her gut said today was the day, so sheâd wait. Patience was another thing Pappy had taught her.