Betting It All Read online

  “Of course.” Mrs. Hathaway glared at the sheriff. “Until this hussy assaulted me, I had five dollars in my chatelaine purse. How dare you doubt my word?”

  This could go on too long. Norah held out her purse. “If it helps, Sheriff, go on and search it.”

  As if it held gunpowder, he took it, peeked inside, grunting as he poked through. “Nothing here.”

  Norah couldn’t help her smug smile.

  Mrs. Hathaway’s mouth pinched tight. “She’s stashed it somewhere.”

  No one better search her. Every bill she’d saved since she was twelve, she’d stitched into the lining of this dress. “I really don’t have time for this.”

  The old biddy clutched her handbag like she wished it were Norah’s neck. “You’re not leaving with my money.”

  She forced a sweet smile. “You’re exactly right. I don’t have your money.”

  From three blocks away, the train whistle blew.

  It’s leaving! “Excuse me.”

  The sheriff grasped her arm. “Sorry, Norah. Not until we get to the bottom of this.”

  The steam puffed above the shop rooftops. Norah imagined her dreams evaporating faster than the smoke.

  “Sheriff, let me go, and you’ll never see me again.”

  Dan Jamison ambled down the street, frowned at the scene, and strode toward them.

  Double drat. Twice now, her hopes for a proper good-bye in private vanished. Now he’d add one more terrible memory to her long history of wrongdoing.

  “What’s going on?” Dan appeared amiable enough, but Norah knew the man could hide his anger well. He’d managed on many an occasion with her.

  The sheriff and Mrs. Hathaway spoke over one another.

  Dan held up a hand. “Now hold on. There must be some mistake.”

  His glance held hers in question. The one person who could make her feel shame, Dan didn’t outwardly inquire, but she had to stifle her instinct to defend her honor to him. Not that he’d doubt her. Always a gentleman, that Dan. If Norah didn’t think of him as the closest thing to a father she’d ever had, she’d kiss him.

  Norah forced a smile. “Yes, a big mistake. May I have my purse now, Sheriff? I really must catch that train.”

  Dan’s face fell. “Without saying good-bye?”

  The train whistle wailed, sending up a column of smoke.

  Tension heightened to panic. “I’d planned to, until I was held up. Sheriff, please.” She’d have to run for it now.

  Dan removed Norah’s purse from the sheriff’s hands and placed it in hers. “I’ll make it right, whatever it is.”

  His words opened a faucet of emotion inside her, and she blinked back tears. Oh, she didn’t deserve him.

  Despite the biddy’s gasp, the sheriff waved her on. “Good riddance.”

  The puff of steam curled backward as the train lurched ahead. After a quick kiss to Dan’s cheek, she abandoned any notion of ladylike appearances. Holding her hat, she sprinted toward the platform. “I’ll write, I swear.”

  At Dan’s forlorn wave, a sob escaped her. If she missed anyone, it would be him. Once she made her fortune in San Francisco, she’d make good on her debts to him, every last one.

  The rain had let up, but the muddy roadway caused her to slip. Cursing, she hitched her skirts. “Wait!”

  Her trunks sat on the platform. She grabbed the first bag and hurled it at the conductor, who stood on the balcony of the caboose. He caught it and set it down, readying for the second, which a man standing nearby tossed aboard. All her worldly goods were leaving without her.

  “Hurry!” The conductor waved her on.

  Her breaths hiccupping in panic, she dredged up her last reserve of energy and sprinted. Reaching for the conductor’s outstretched hand, she leapt. Her hand caught his and her boot touched the metal step. All her old instincts kicked in—racing kids to town after staying outside past twilight—and she floated atop the deck like she’d practiced the jump.

  With a satisfied smile, she smoothed back her hair. “Thank you ever so much.”

  “Pleasure.” Taking in her muddied hem, he opened the door. “You do have a ticket, right?”

  “Why, of course.” If the sheriff hadn’t lost it. She struggled to remain calm. “I do need to sit, if you don’t mind.” She fanned herself in a pretended swoon, though the run had exhilarated her.

  Lifting her bags, he gestured her forward. “Right this way, Miss…”

  Following him, she nodded. “Hawkins.”

  He halted, brows arched. “Norah Hawkins?”

  Oh no. Abandoning her past wouldn’t come easily. She pursed her lips and gestured him forward. “Please, sir.”

  The conductor grumbled, but moved on.

  She took a seat near the rear in case the ticket proved lost. “Right here’s fine. I really must catch my breath.”

  After setting her bags down, he shuffled away.

  Leaping off would be easy, but to what? A life like her mother’s? Never.

  A quick search of her purse found the ticket in the secret silk lining, where she’d tucked it. Thank goodness. She’d have hated to leave her bags on the train so hastily.

  The conductor returned with a skeptical sigh.

  At first, she made a show of searching. “Oh my. I know I put it in here somewhere.” Ladies always seemed to misplace things and act so helpless in front of men. She needed to practice the technique, although it didn’t appear to engender any chivalrous nature in the conductor.

  Checking his pocket watch, he turned. “We can put you off at the next station.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. I’m rather surprised they’d allow someone so ungentlemanly to work with the public.”

  “How do you think I got the job? I don’t care if you’re my mother. You need a ticket to ride this train.”

  “Good thing I have one then.” And that she wasn’t his mother. She’d whip the sass right out of him. Like a magician, she produced the ticket, repressing the urge to stick out her tongue.

  His lips twitched as he grunted something like, lucky for you.

  She smiled. Luck had nothing to do with it. It was her best ace up her sleeve, aside from the fact that she so deftly could hide an actual ace up her sleeve.

  ***

  As the train sped west, Twain’s travelogue captured Norah’s attention, but by afternoon, her muscles ached for a stretch. Walking to the dining car, she mused that a man of Mr. Twain’s witty and wise nature might hold her attention long enough to say ‘I do’, especially if she could accompany him on his travels.

  Oh, how she’d longed to see such exotic places. But the need to set down permanent roots overrode her appetite for adventure. To have a home, her first real one, would be wonderful. Owning her own saloon—an upstanding one—would eventually allow her to purchase a grand hotel, and thus afford her a respectable place in society. Manipulating numbers had always come easily to her, and she added up columns of them faster than Dan could. Just one of the many skills he’d taught her.

  Other skills, he’d discouraged. Racing horses, borrowed for the day from unsuspecting barns. Shooting marbles for bets. Her poker face. It’ll come in handy now.

  Men sat at a table in the dining car, cards fanned out in front of them.

  Shoot. Of all the poor luck. There he sat—the man who’d witnessed her altercation with Mrs. Hathaway. His hair hung longer than she remembered, wisps touching the collar of his denim shirt, which was tucked into his jeans. She unabashedly met his gaze as she approached, though his eyes shone with both fire and ice. Too often, she’d seen that same expression on the men at Sal’s, hungry and willful, wanting to use her up and move on to the next poor girl.

  She affected an air of innocence and approached the group. And oh my, the handsome stranger had quite a stack of chips. So did the others. Enough to ensure that, should her letter prove a hoax, Norah wouldn’t need the generosity of unknown persons to sustain her.

  At the stranger’s hard glance,
the odd sensation pierced her again: that he saw through her. Knew her for what she truly was.

  “You don’t mind if I watch, do you? I’m bored silly.” She tittered to prove just how much.

  One of the two elderly gents smiled. “There’s always room for one more.”

  She fanned herself. “Me? Why, I wouldn’t know how.”

  The second silver-haired man smirked. “We’ll teach you. And we’ll go easy on you. Won’t we, boys?”

  The handsome man narrowed his eyes while the four others shared a hearty laugh.

  With a demure smile, she eased onto the chair, exuding feminine grace. Good thing they didn’t ask her to make the same promise to go easy on them.

  Hells bells. There she sat, in all her pretended glory. Mac shifted as his groin acknowledged her by hardening. His father always told him he’d been born under a bad moon, and he’d have to steal a four-leaf clover to have any luck. This woman following him bore an ill omen worse than a banshee. A beautiful one, yes, with an entrancing smile, but he’d already glimpsed her true nature.

  She batted her wide eyes. “I’m afraid I don’t have much cash.”

  The first older man smiled. “We’ll start at a penny.”

  Mac groaned. So much for making a profit.

  She stilled like a she-devil sizing up her prey. “Only until I accustom myself to your rules of play.”

  Oh, he’d love to acquaint her with his rules of play. Only if he could leave her at the next stop, probably screaming louder than any banshee.

  “What shall I call each of you?” She was all sweetness.

  The men introduced themselves as Ralph Anderson, brothers Micah and Fred Johnson, and John Aldercott.

  Then, it was his turn. “Mac.”

  She nodded at him, her dimples deepening as her gaze met the other men’s, then disappearing at returning to him. “I’m Norah Hawkins. Pleased to meet you all.”

  Irish? She didn’t speak with the typical lilting tone. All his life, he’d worked at losing his brogue, tired of the sneers it brought.

  Aldercott shuffled and dealt. “Now that we’re all acquainted, let’s resume our game.”

  The first few hands, she lost, likely on purpose. She accepted a one-finger round of whiskey, then another. “Maybe I’ll play better if there’s more at stake. Say, a half dollar?”

  Mac schooled his expression to give away nothing. Lord, save us from the she-devil. “At least then it’s not a total waste of my time.”

  Hiccupping, she touched a finger to her lips. “Pardon. Do you have somewhere else to be, Mac?”

  Patience had never been a virtue of his. “A nap might be a more worthwhile use of my time.”

  Beneath that silly feathered hat, her eyes took on the sparkle of gems—and the cold hardness. “I apologize for keeping you from your sleep. Let’s go up to a half dollar, gentlemen.”

  Very smooth. The gleam of greed in the other men’s eyes waned after she won the next two hands.

  Outside the window, dusk cloaked the landscape and gave way to darkness, but they played on.

  Mr. Aldercott kept up an easy banter. Only she and Mac resisted sharing the details of their lives.

  The old gent poured her another shot, two fingers this time. “What brings you west, Miss Hawkins?”

  She raised her chin as she had in the shop the first time he’d seen her, giving her a proud appearance. And defiant. “A new life, Mr. Aldercott. I’m opening a saloon in San Francisco.”

  Micah jabbed at his brother. “We’ll need a good stiff drink after working the docks all day.”

  Maintaining an air of grace, she scanned her cards. “My drinking establishment will be a gentleman’s club.”

  So, her ‘new life’ continued her old pretense and excluded riff raff, though she herself had likely been born to it. Mac winked. “Ah. The city needs more of those. But be sure you keep operations on the down low.”

  She knit her brows. “Why should I?”

  He clucked his tongue. “The vice brigade may harass the prostitutes.”

  Heat flashed in her eyes. “I’m not opening a bordello. Men of high class will patronize my business for the sanctuary it offers. Let them seek out tramps at the local whorehouse.” Norah lowered her head.

  Pretend embarrassment? Mac didn’t think so. Interesting. “What about entertainment? I can play any song on the piano.”

  Her ladyship’s demureness gave way to coolness. “I’m sure plenty of saloons would welcome your talents.”

  Anger drew out his brogue. “Yes, because I draw customers. Who stay longer to hear me play. And spend more money than they might’ve.”

  “Astounding.” Her pretend amazement left no doubt as to her meaning.

  So, a thief and a bitch. “Yes. Many have said that and with a heap more appreciation.” Mac tossed his cards onto the table. “I’m out. For the night.”

  Without so much as a nod, he continued through the car. He’d never give her the pleasure of learning first hand just how astounding.

  ***

  The train jerked to a halt. Norah squinted at the sunlight streaming in the window beside her seat. Her drowsiness fled. San Francisco! She pressed against the glass. Buildings loomed above the platform, stretching as far as she could see. Somewhere within these streets sat 377 Third Avenue, the property to which she’d lay claim. God help anyone who stood in her way.

  Gathering her belongings, she filed out behind the others and stepped onto the street. She took in the crowd of buildings and people, and the newness of it all—rife with possibility. I made it!

  At the clerk’s window, she stopped. “Can you recommend a nearby hotel? A reputable one?”

  “The Windsor’s on Fifth and Market. A few blocks.” The clerk pointed.

  She turned to look, then alarm braced her. A few feet away, Mac watched.

  His stare unsettled her. She tugged at the high collar on her dress, suddenly agitating her neck. She turned to the clerk. “Thank you.” She could manage her suitcases for a few blocks. Managing her limited funds would prove a greater challenge until her business grew profitable. If the letter indeed proved true.

  Nervousness propelled her down the street with too-large strides. Men slowed to watch, and women arched their brows above surprised stares. Much as it raised her hackles, she needed the approval of these townspeople if her business were to thrive. Propriety slowed her to a more ladylike gait, but damn if it didn’t chafe her.

  The blue awning stretched toward the street, bearing the insignia for the Windsor Hotel. A grand name, if the hotel didn’t quite live up to it. An inauspicious start to her days in San Francisco.

  No, not days. Her new life.

  The man behind the desk glanced from her muddied hem to her bags as she approached. “May I help you?”

  “How much for a room?”

  “Two dollars.”

  Numbers flew through her head, mounting too fast. “For a week?”

  “No, a night.”

  “I see.” She couldn’t very well traipse all over the city carrying her bags. “All right.” She’d have to conduct business with the attorney fast.

  “Sign the register.” He swiveled the guest book to face her.

  For once, she wrote her name with pride, in large script. Dan had been right, like always. It paid off to practice her handwriting.

  The attendant handed her a key. “Room 209, third door to the right up the stairs.”

  She smiled her thanks and carried her suitcase up the carpeted staircase, head held high. Once inside the room, she dropped the bags and exhaled. A mirror atop the bureau at the end of the bed showed a bedraggled woman. No wonder the clerk had stared.

  “I can’t very well meet Mr. Abernathy looking like this.” The letter. She hadn’t seen it today. Her fingers flew through her purse and found the envelope, crumpled but safe. She sighed in relief.

  After a bath, she washed the mud from her gown's hem in the tub water, thankful she'd had the foresight to s
ew her savings higher up. The fabric would need time to dry. If she wished to make a good impression, she’d have to wait until tomorrow to visit the attorney.

  To ease her restless mind, she took a sheet of letterhead from the drawer and wrote:

  San Francisco, March 3, 1906

  Dear Dan,

  I know I haven’t given you much cause for hope over the years, but I intend to make good on my word. You’ve taught me so much, and I couldn’t have asked more from any father. I suspect you are behind the mysterious letter’s circumstances. Time may prove me wrong. Nonetheless, I sincerely want to do you proud. Someday I hope people respect me as much as they do you.

  With heartfelt gratitude,

  Norah

  Guilt filled her as she sealed the envelope. Her first letter should have been to her mother. Estelle probably forgot I left. More likely, she’d bought a bottle and forgot everything, period.

  She imagined Dan holding the letter. He’d read it through to be assured of her welfare before taking notice of the fancy image at the top. Someday, she’d have her own stationery, and then he’d have to be impressed.

  With that thought, she folded down the coverlet and tried not to muss the bed linens as she climbed between them. What am I doing? I paid good money to sleep here. She stretched her arms and legs, then kicked the sheets loose as giddiness overwhelmed her. Free! She was finally free and on her own.

  With that thought, exhaustion seeped into her bones and she drifted off to sleep.

  She awoke when the sun warmed her face. Worried she might be dreaming, she pinched herself. The twinge of pain made her giggle. It’s real. I’m in San Francisco. Not wanting the blissful feeling to stop, she lay there until excitement threatened to burst her out of her skin. She hummed as she dressed, and once she was satisfied with the reflection in the mirror, she plucked her letter to Dan from the desk and descended the stairs like a princess.

  Downstairs in the hotel lobby, Mac stepped around the corner into her path. “A letter to your beau?”

  She clutched the letter tighter. “No.” How had the man managed to turn her excitement to anger with one sentence? Not even a ‘good morning’ or ‘howdy do’, but questioning her personal life like some gossipy biddy.