Page 52 of New Storm Rising
“Ehem…” The older Grant, glancing at her daughters, whose eyes were gleaming with freshly-awakened gambling addiction, cleared her throat. “Mrs…Ambrose, was it? I am not quite sure this card game is an entirely appropriate pastime for ladies of good breeding.”
“Oh, don’t worry!” With a reassuring smile, I waved around at the scantily dressed women scattered through the saloon, serving drinks and flirting with the men. “I’m sure there’s plenty of breeding going on in this place. Some of it might even be good.”
“Um…yes, but…errr…I…” Suddenly, Mrs Grant’s eyes fell on the empty table in front of her, and she brightened. “I am sorry, but I suddenly realize I seem to have run out of funds for the day,” the middle-aged lady stated with entirely too much joy for someone who had just realized they were broke.
My smile widened. “Don’t you worry! A really good friend of mine from East London told me about a variety of poker that can be played even if people don’t have any money!”
“Um…is that so?”
“Oh, yes.” Leaning over to the older woman, I nodded happily, giving her my most innocent, convincing look. “It’s called strip poke—”
“What. Are. You. Doing. Here?”
Ah…
The icy voice from behind me was like a cool drink on a hot day. Like a snowflake tickling my nose atop my own personal ice palace. Although, by the looks of it, the rest of the customers didn’t really share my sudden happiness.
“Dicky Darling!” Beaming, I turned around and reached out to give my dear husband a loving slap on the butt. My hand got about as far as three inches before a much stronger hand wrapped around my wrist, stopping me cold.
A familiar pair of dark, sea-coloured eyes stared down at me. “First. Do not call me that. Second. Do not do that. Third.What are you doing here?”
“Playing poker,” I explained helpfully. “It is a card game in which two to seven players wager a sum of money—or various pieces of underwear—on which hand is the best. There are a variety of deck configurations, which—”
“I know what poker is,” his arctic voice cut me off like a freshly-polished scalpel. “What I donotknow is what mywifeis doing in an establishment such as this.”
Suddenly, the four men around the table seemed to be wishing themselves very, very far away. Yet, for some reason, their butts appeared to be frozen to their chairs.
“So…” asked Miss Melanie Grant, “I guess that means we can’t marry him?”
Nobody paid attention to her.
All eyes in the room were focused on Mr Rikkard Ambrose. With heavy steps, he repositioned himself until he stood directly behind the four thugs who by now were sweating bullets.
“Now…” One stone-hard hand each landed on the shoulders of the closest men. “Shall we play a different game?”
***
The wind whistled. A wooden sign creaked in the breeze. In the distance, the gurgles of a horse-thief being lynched by a mob echoed through the street. On a corner of a street, a guy in a poncho smoked a cigar in a particularly cool way while he contemplated whom he’d shoot later today. All in all, a typical day in the Wild West.
Wham!
The door to the saloon burst open and four hairy men in their underwear rushed out into the street.
The poncho man’s cigar dropped out of his mouth. Well, maybe not so typical. These guys didn’t even have the decency to be tarred and feathered!
Shrugging, he pulled out another cigar, and continued contemplating homicide.
***
Inside the saloon, Mr Rikkard Ambrose sat at the table counting the winnings.
Mywinnings.
Sidling up to him from behind, I slid an arm around his neck in a conjugal gesture of affection, and excellent starting position for a future stranglehold.
“Say, my dear husband…aren’t those mine?”
He cocked his head. “We’re married. What’s mine is yours, and more importantly, what’s yours is mine. Correct?”
