Page 50 of Mail Order Bride

“Yeah, she came in looking for a spot at the poker table. And she got it.”

Martin holds poker matches in the back of his store. He’s an honest man, but I know who shows up to his table, and I’m not a big fan of that crowd. Most are harmless. A few are not.

“Gina?” I say. “She's a pistol.”

“You're telling me. She beat us all.”

“Can't say I'm surprised,” I tell him, which is a lie. I had no idea Gina could play poker. She's never mentioned it. Just like she never mentioned her “dream” of being an “actress.” Dreams, I might add, that sound a little more solid than ideas rattling around in her head. It sounds to me like she has a goddamn plan, and now that I’m hearing this, well, I’m beginning to worry that maybe I don’t know my wife at all.

“You know,” said Old Man Martin, “I’ve seen a lot of things in my time, but never a girl that young with that much guts. She'll be the death of you one day.”

I look at the snow and nod. “Hopefully, not anytime soon,” I tell him, motioning toward the partially dug grave. “I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

“Well, I guess I’d better get on with it,” he says. “Nice seeing you, Joel.”

I watch him leave, and I keep digging.

Later, at home, after dinner, I walk into the living room and find Gina sitting on the couch. She glances up from her book and points to the chair across from her.

I sit and look at her, noticing her striking features. Her long hair falls down her back like a waterfall of gold. Her chestnut eyes sparkle as she looks at me. She's wearing a dress that hugs her curves in all the right places. I can't help but admire her, but I also feel a deep sense of dread. I pull a deck of cards from my back pocket.

“Care for a little Texas Hold 'Em?”

“Now?”

I shuffle the deck and cut the cards. “Is there a better time?”

“I don’t know. I just had other things in mind,” she says, putting her book down. She walks over and straddles me in the chair. “It's dreadful out and I'm cold. I've been waiting all day for you to get home and keep me warm.”

I squeeze her ass, and she smiles. Then I pull her in close. “I’ll keep you warm, but want to play a few hands first,” I say, my lips brushing against her throat. She shudders.

“God, you're good,” she says.

I kiss her on the lips. She tastes like the candy she just ate— peppermint.

“You're pretty good yourself, I hear,” I say. “The guys at the poker table said they thought you were something special.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

She kisses me, hard, on the mouth. “You don't seem happy.”

“Be careful,” I say. “This town can be a brutal place. People here don't like to lose.”

She climbs off me and walks over to the window, looking out at the dark. “I don't understand you.”

“What's there to understand?”

“You're angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Yeah, you are,” she says, and she's right. Maybe I'm a little angry, but I can't pinpoint exactly why. “And not only are you trying to control me—you’re gaslighting me.”

“Gaslighting you?”

She turns to me, her eyes tearing up. “You don't know what it's like to be out here all alone.”

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