I see Adeline Wilson and Clayton Davis!” her friend exclaimed. “I must congratulate them on their engagement.”
Just like that, Violet was left alone again, stuck pinning up a wall with her shoulder blades and pining for a chance to dance. She watched as her very best friend, Adeline Wilson, gracefully accepted a fresh dose of congratulations, appearing typically beautiful and amiable all the while. Everything that Violet was not, Adeline was: pretty, dainty and sought-after.
But Violet possessed her own good qualities, she reminded herself staunchly. She was kindhearted, brave and intelligent. She was effective in her charity work. She was clever. She truly enjoyed doing good works. She had many close friends, as well.
So what if she had an empty dance card? That didn’t matter.
Except it did matter, Violet admitted to herself as she heaved a resigned sigh and went to put away all those bundled overcoats. In her heart of hearts, it mattered a great deal. Worthy pursuits were rewarding, that was true; but so was dancing!
There was nothing to be done about her empty dance card now, though. Nor was there any point in torturing herself with it any longer. Almost to the cloakroom, Violet tossed her dance card toward a nearby trash bin.
Likely there were several helpful tasks she ought to be doing anyway, and there’d be cleaning up to do later, too.
She should concentrate on practical matters, just as she always did…and leave the daydreaming to women like Adeline—women who stood a chance of having their fantasies come true.
At the conclusion of his initial assessment of the Territorial Benevolent Association Grand Fair, Cade noticed the woman who tossed away a dance card. With nimble movements, Cade snatched the card from midair. He was surprised to see it was empty. But empty or full, that didn’t matter for his purposes.
A man never knew when an accoutrement of belonging someplace, like a dance card, would come in handy. With a cursory glance at the primly dressed woman, Cade pocketed it. It might prove useful as an introduction to a conversation later.
He didn’t know anyone in Morrow Creek; except for his sponsor, the notoriously private Simon Blackhouse, Cade was alone. That’s why he’d made it a point to perform his usual analysis with extra caution, identifying every entrance and exit and cataloging every potentially dangerous character in attendance. A man couldn’t be too prepared. As Cade patted down his pristine suit coat pocket, assuring himself the empty dance card was secure, he reminded himself a man couldn’t be too vigilant either. In his line of work, surprises could be deadly.
Despite his expectations, though, it seemed the Grand Fair was nothing more than an ordinary rural raffle. On the stage across the ballroom, a wire cage held the raffle entries, ready for the drawing. A locked cash box stood beside it; foolishly, there was no guard in the vicinity to protect its contents. Near the refreshments table, partygoers bid on cakes and pies and other wholesome goodies. Banners and bunting hung gaily from the rafters. Gullible townspeople danced blithely beneath them.
To Cade’s jaundiced eye, the whole place seemed improbably virtuous. But no place was that good. No person was that good. Hell, even that mousy woman with her armful of coats and her downcast gaze probably had scandalous secrets to tell.
Cade simply needed to look closer. If he did, he knew he’d find the bad behavior he expected—and along with it, the inevitable wagering that he hoped would lead him to the elusive Percy Whittier—professional gambler, runaway family man and odds-on favorite to win the upcoming private faro tournament.
Unless, of course, Cade got to Whittier first.
And that’s exactly what he’d promised to do.
Another circuit of the Grand Fair later, after a few informative chats, some flirting and a bolt of whiskey, Cade found it: his first proper game of chance in Morrow Creek.
It was time to get to work.
Sliding in place between a dandified farmer—whose Saturday night shirt couldn’t disguise the grime of Friday’s labor—and a soberly dressed minister, Cade flexed his fingers. He offered his most charming smile. Then he hoped like hell his unlucky streak was at an end, because he needed a win.
Chapter Two
As typically happened at parties, Violet found herself at the spinsters’ table in short order. She’d already made the rounds of the gala’s volunteer helpers, offering her assistance wherever it was needed. She’d sat in with a fiddle for one of the musicians’ simpler songs at the horn player’s urgings. She’d also earned hearty laughs among the members of the ladies’ auxiliary club with her anecdotes about baking apple-spice jumbles as her contribution to the Grand Fair bake sale. Now she was earnestly engaged in boosting the spirits of her fellow wallflowers. She simply couldn’t stand seeing anyone unhappy.
“Even if we don’t do any dancing tonight,” Violet was telling the women nearest her, “that doesn’t mean we have to abandon the notion of fun altogether! The evening is still young. Besides, I’m having a wonderful time talking with you!”
The town’s most outspoken widow, Mrs. Sunley, snorted over her glass of mescal. “That’s very kind of you, Miss Benson. But I’d prefer to trot around in the arms of a handsome young buck.”
Everyone tittered. Mrs. Sunley typically spoke her mind, sometimes to the point of impropriety. Privately, Violet admired her for it—and for her enviable sense of independence, too. Most likely, her own future would be similar to Mrs. Sunley’s, Violet knew—save the aforesaid marriage to begin it, of course.
“That would be delightful, Mrs. Sunley,” Violet agreed, “if there were any handsome new ‘young bucks’ here in town.”
“Oh! But there is a handsome new man in town!” one of the wallflowers said. “We were talking about him earlier!”
At that, everyone launched into a spirited dissertation of the mystery man’s rugged good looks, sophisticated suit and rakish air of je ne sais quoi. One woman described his smile (“It made me dizzy! I swear it did!”); another rhapsodized over his masculine demeanor (“My brother, Big Horace, looked like a wee girl standing next to him!”); a third waxed lyrical about his elegant manners (“Yes! He bowed to me, just like a gentleman in a Harper’s Weekly story! I almost swooned on the spot!”).
“I think he must be here for the private faro tournament,” one woman confided in hushed tones. “I heard from my Oscar that all the finest sporting men are coming to town to participate.”
Everyone nodded in approbation. Out West, professional gamblers were accorded a great deal of respect, especially when they were winning. Even Jack Murphy, one of Morrow Creek’s most reputable citizens, employed professional sporting men to run the tables at his saloon.
“I’ll bet he’s a big winner!” someone said, still prattling on about the mysterious stranger. “He certainly looked it, with that self-assured air he had. And those eyes!”
The women all sighed with romantic delight. Even curmudgeonly Mrs. Sunley fluttered her fan in a coquettish fashion. The gossip went on, but Violet couldn’t help laughing.
“Gambler or not, no man is that fascinating,” she insisted. “In my experience, men are usually
