“You don’t have a problem teaching poker to a woman, do you?”

Brady held up his hand. “Of course not. But you’ve got to give this a lot of thought.”

“I have. I can learn it, and I can sure use the money.”

There was something about Molly. Her determination impressed him even as it warned him about possible complications down the road. Maybe the bet was crazy, but the consequences were real enough.

He gave her a serious head-to-toe appraisal. She stared right back at him. She had guts. Her answers were quick and decisive. She was obviously ambitious and wasn’t afraid of taking a risk. All good qualities in a poker player. Maybe this would work out. All he had to do was set some limits, let her know he was the boss.

She placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, Brady, but I’ve got to have an answer.” Never flinching, she added, “I can do this. You won’t be sorry. So what’ll it be?”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cynthia Thomason writes contemporary and historical romances and dabbles in mysteries. When she’s not writing, she works as a licensed auctioneer in the auction business she and her husband own. In this capacity, she has come across scores of unusual items, many of which have found their way into her books. She loves travelling the US and exploring out-of-the-way places. She has one son, an entertainment reporter, and an ageing but still lovable Jack Russell terrier. Cynthia dreams of perching on a mountain top in North Carolina every autumn to watch the leaves turn. You can learn more about her at www.cynthiathomason.com.

Dear Reader,

The release of this book marks the end of one of the most fun and challenging experiences I’ve had as a writer. When my editor invited me to participate in a continuity series starring five guys who play Texas Hold ’Em poker together, I jumped at the chance. Not only do I like watching poker tournaments on TV, my husband is something of an expert at the game, and I enjoy playing myself. I couldn’t wait to develop a hero who would match wits with a circle of buddies from all walks of life, and to lead this guy into a romantic entanglement that would take all five guys to figure out.

I learned a couple of important things about poker and friendships. Both require nurturing, patience and understanding. But the similarity ends there, because when the cards aren’t falling the way you want them to, true friendships remain strong. I hope you’ll come to appreciate what the support of each of these card-playing guys means to Brady as he makes the biggest gamble of his life by taking a chance on a girl and a horse.

And I hope you read the other four books in this series, each one unique because of what Tara Taylor Quinn, Debra Salonen, Linda Style and Linda Warren bring to the series. You’ll meet five guys you won’t soon forget. I know I’ll never forget them.

I love to hear from readers. Please visit my website, www.cynthiathomason.com, e-mail me at cynthoma@aol.com or write to me at PO Box 550068, Fort Lauderdale, FL, 33355, USA.

Sincerely,

Cynthia

Deal Me In

CYNTHIA THOMASON

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I would like to thank Lauren Newberg,

the daughter of one of my dearest friends, for

teaching me everything about horses, using her

very own Spot and Ellie as patient models.

I now know that horses can smile, because these

two definitely do when Lauren’s around.

And I’d like to thank friends Jerry and Linda

Paradise for taking me on a special tour of their

magnificent thoroughbred facility,

Tuxedo Farms, in Ocala, Florida.

Horses never had it so good.

Contents

Excerpt About the Author Title Page Dedication Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Epilogue Preview Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

BRADY WOUND through the crowd of Texas horsemen gathered in the show ring. The prime offering of the morning was coming into the arena next and everyone wanted a close-up view of Amber Mac.

Including Brady. He’d been excited about this young thoroughbred since Colin Warner had tipped him off to the horse’s bloodlines and the private sale at Henley’s Blue Bonnet Farm. Brady trusted Colin because Brady’s good friend, Blake Smith, had hired the business whiz kid based on one interview. If Blake saw so much potential in Colin, that was all Brady needed to check out this horse for himself. And now, his future could very well hinge on whether or not he and his dad went home with Amber Mac.

He joined his father and the head trainer from Cross Fox Ranch in the center of the ring. Marshall Carrick rubbed his finger down his thick gray mustache. “Can you believe this crowd for mid-January?” he said. “I figured this being so soon after the holidays, everyone would be recovering from making merry. But apparently Al Henley got the word out that he was selling some prize stock before the spring auction.”

“I hear ya’, Dad. I just hope all these people haven’t come to compete with us for Amber Mac.”

Marshall cupped his hand over his mouth. “Blake and Warner seem to be right on about this animal and you can be sure Al knows what a winner he’s got—he’s invited enough people to ensure he’ll rake in every dollar he can. I guess he spent too much on Christmas presents and needs to replenish his bank account with this sale.” Keeping his voice low, Marshall turned to the man who’d been his head trainer for over thirty years. “Tell me one more time, Dobbs. The vet reports on Amber Mac are conclusive?”

Trevor Dobbs, stoop-shouldered from age but still clear-eyed and alert where horses were concerned, stared at his boss. “You know there’s no such animal as the perfect horse, Marsh. But yes, the reports look good. The digital X-rays showed no imperfections. The horse’s throat latch is wide-open. His lungs are clean.”

Seeing someone he knew, Dobbs walked off. Marshall looked at Brady. “And the horse’s conformation? You had another close look?”

“Of course, Dad. I told you before, I checked him over head to tail. His hocks and knees are straight. His neck is long. His eyes are wide and alert.” Brady smiled. “In fact, I had a personal conversation with him and he seemed interested in everything I had to say.”

Marshall tapped the sale catalog against his palm. “You kid about this, but there’s truth to what you just said. A horse that pays attention is easier to train.”

“I know. You’ve told me. And this isn’t my first day in the horse business. I grew up in it, remember?” He rubbed his knee. Standing for hours wasn’t good for the old football injury. Stating a sad fact, he said, “Believe me, Dad, this horse is in better shape than I am.”

“How about his hips?” Marshall asked.

“A bit narrow,” Brady admitted. “But not enough to affect his running ability.” He shook his head. “Look, you should examine him yourself. Then you wouldn’t be questioning everything I’m telling you.”

“I’ll look at him when he comes out. I’m just making sure you haven’t forgotten anything.”

Brady tried to ignore his building resentment. “Either you trust me on this horse or you don’t.”

Marshall waved off his comment. “I trust you. But you haven’t been home all that long.”

“Almost a year and a half,” Brady pointed out.

“I realize what this thoroughbred means to you. You’ve made it clear that you want me to consider you for Dobbs’s position when he retires in six months. And since I won’t do that just because you’re my son—”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. And I understand your reservations about me.”

“—you need Amber Mac to prove you can take over from Dobbs. I get it, son… It’s just that it’s hard to keep up with the value of horseflesh while you’re on a football field.”

Or inside a casino. Brady knew the restraint his father must have used not to mention the sore subject of his son’s ill-spent two years in Las Vegas. He wanted to point out that he’d been ready and willing to pull his weight in the family business since he’d come home. He kept silent, however, and watched as the gate at the end of the ring opened.

Henley’s stable foreman coaxed Amber Mac into the ring. And every rancher from around the state paid attention.

“He’s on a halter,” Marshall said. “Is he bridle-broke?”

“Not yet,” Brady said. He cast a sideways look at his father. “You can leave that up to me. Surely after thirty-two years of being a Carrick, I’ve proven to you that I can break horses to bridles and saddles.” As the horse was led closer, Brady stared in awe. “Look at that deep chestnut color. And check his gait. A good swinging walk, long strides.”

Al Henley came up behind them. “There he is, gentlemen. Amber Mac.” He smiled with the slickness of a used-car salesman who knew he had serious customers on the lot. “In case I need to remind you, Mac’s sire is Macintosh Red from Dufoil Stables in Virginia. Among his credits, Red won the Arkansas Derby, the Arlington Million and the Oak Leaf Stakes. His dam is our own Honey’s Gold. She foaled Amber Mac in March.”

“We know all that, Al,” Marshall said. “It doesn’t mean we’re going to buy this horse.”

Henley slapped Marshall on his back. “I think it does, Marsh. It’s all about the bloodlines and you know this is a top-notch animal.”

“I don’t know anything of the sort,” Marshall said. “He’s carrying around that extra flesh we see in a lot of weanlings. What do you think, son?”

Brady hid a smile. “It’s a shame, isn’t it?” he said. “Means I’ll have to put him on grass for a few weeks. Breeders should know better than to let a horse put on show fat.”

Henley laughed. “Why don’t you boys quit wasting time and make me an offer on this horse.”

Marshall rubbed his chin. “I might take a chance on him. Like you said, his bloodlines are impressive. I’m prepared to offer you ten thousand.”

Despite the cool January temperature, Brady removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. These two horse traders were a long way from coming to an agreement.

Henley scoffed at the offer. “Take Mac away,” he instructed his stableman as he headed toward another group of potential buyers. “Find some serious horsemen in this crowd.”

Brady started to protest, but Marshall lay a work-roughened hand on his shirtsleeve. “We can’t appear too anxious, son. I wouldn’t be surprised if Blue Bonnet had one of their own men in the crowd pretending to be interested in Mac.” He smiled with one side of his mouth. “One thing you should remember about horse traders…you can’t trust any of us. The best thing we can do now is have a look at that two-year-old Appaloosa over there and make Henley think we’ve lost interest.”

At their truck forty-five minutes and several conversations later, Marshall Carrick took his checkbook from his glove compartment. “Not bad,” he said as he wrote out the check. “I would have gone fifty grand on Mac, so I’m satisfied with forty-three thousand.”

Dobbs passed around bottles of beer from a six-pack. “At least Henley’s providing the refreshments.”

Brady accepted the drink and took a long swallow. Forty-three thousand dollars. He knew his father had the money, but despite the fair salary Brady was earning at Cross Fox, it had been a long time since he’d seen five-digit figures in his own checking account. He figured it would take at least ten minutes for his heart to stop jumping into his throat.

“I’ll find Al, pay our bill and make arrangements to pick up the horse,” Marshall said, heading back to the show ring. He stopped and called over his shoulder. “I’m starved. Where’d you say that restaurant is you always go to, Dobbs?”

“Only a couple of miles down the road in Prairie Bend,” the Irishman said. “Cliff’s Diner. Best food in Texas.”

“Meet you boys back here at the truck,” Marshall said. “I’m hungry enough to eat a…” He stopped, chuckled. “Guess I won’t say it.”

Brady drained the rest of his beer. “I’ll meet you at the truck, too, Dobbs. I’ve got to have one more look at Amber Mac.”

The trainer rested his arm on a fence post and smiled. “I thought you might.”

CLIFF’S DINER was like a hundred others surviving in Texas prairie towns. It looked like an Airstream travel trailer on steroids, all silvery chrome on the outside and red, black and white on the inside. Brady waited for his father to slide into the vinyl booth then sat beside him. Dobbs settled across from them and opened one of the three menus the hostess had set on the table.

Marshall pushed his reading glasses to the end of his nose. “What’s good?”

“The burgers,” Dobbs said. “Half a pound each and brimming with juice ’long as you don’t order them well done.”

What the heck. Brady figured his arteries could stand a wake-up call. Besides, they were celebrating, and for a born-and-bred Texan, any celebration included beef. “So that’s why you come here, to have a hamburger?”

“And the lemonade,” Dobbs said. He leaned across the table. “Not to mention the best part…” A smile split the weathered creases of his face. “And there she is.”

A cute, dark-haired waitress stopped at their table, an order pad open in her hand. “Hey, Dobbs,” she said. “I haven’t seen you around in a few months. No interesting horses over at the Blue Bonnet?”

“I don’t come all the way up here from River Bluff just to buy horses, darlin’. I come to see the prettiest waitress in Prairie Bend, maybe all of Texas. And if I’d known you were getting better looking every day, I’d have made the trip more often.”

Brady stared at the trainer. Nearly all traces of Dobbs’s Irish ancestry had vanished from his speech, though he still had the gift of the gab. The waitress was young enough to be his granddaughter. But Dobbs was about as faithful to his wife, Serafina, as any man could be.

The girl must have known it, as well, because she rolled her eyes. “Do you want lemonade with that blarney, Dobbs?”

He laughed. “Sure. But first I want you to meet my boss.” He nodded toward Marshall. “This is the owner of Cross Fox Ranch, Marshall Carrick.”

She stared at Marshall a moment before offering her hand across the table. “Nice to meet you.”

“And this fella is his son, Brady,” Dobbs said.

Brady glanced at the name tag on her red dress. “Hello, Molly.”

She took a step back from the table. Her eyes widened as she appraised Brady overtly before grabbing her pen from her pocket and positioning it over the order pad. “Hi. So what’ll you have?”

After taking down the orders, she headed toward the kitchen. Dobbs leaned back and smiled at Brady. “You’ve still got it, don’t you?”

Brady stopped fiddling with a plastic carnation in the center of the table. “What are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you see the way Molly looked at you? I can’t tell you the last time a pretty young thing gave me the once-over. It’s obvious Molly is a Cowboys fan.”

Brady was used to curious, even adoring gazes from women. He hadn’t had many in the past few years, but when he played with the Dallas Cowboys he’d gotten lots, even when he was married and had Daphne on his arm. But he’d swear the look he’d just gotten from Molly wasn’t like that. In fact, she’d made him feel uncomfortable, as if she’d noticed he had something stuck between his teeth. He shook his head. “I didn’t get the same impression, Dobbs.”

“Then you weren’t paying attention. I bet you’ve got a double-decker burger coming with the extra patty on the house.” A busboy set three large glasses of lemonade on the table, and Dobbs took a swallow, while Marshall pulled out Amber Mac’s sales receipt and ignored them. “Molly’s cute, isn’t she?” Dobbs said.

Looking over his shoulder, Brady watched her fill the coffee cup of a cowboy at the counter. She smiled at the guy, a warm natural expression unlike the reserved greeting she’d given Brady. She curled her fingers over her shapely hip and laughed, then excused herself with a flippant wave of her hand. Her wavy hair, bound in a ponytail, flirted with her nape as she walked away. “Yeah, she’s cute,” Brady agreed. “How long have you known her?”

“A while,” Dobbs said. “She was working at this diner when I started coming here almost ten years ago. Back then I seem to remember she was married. Then she was gone for a few years. And one day she was back and no ring on her finger.”

Dobbs looked at the artificial plants hanging from the ceiling. A pitiful strand of tinsel drooped from one of them, overlooked when the Christmas decorations had been packed up. “I asked her why she hadn’t hooked up with someone again,” he added.

Oddly curious about the answer, Brady said, “What’d she say?”

“She’s a wisecracker. She went on about how any girl would be happy to have a permanent spot at Cliff’s Diner and that she’d probably be serving up lemonade when her hair turned gray.” He shook his head. “I hope that’s not true.”

“Hush now,” Marshall said, looking up. “Here she comes with our food.”

Molly set plates in front of the men, asked if they needed anything else and walked away.

“Eat up,” Marshall said. “We’ve got a horse to take home this afternoon.”

As they ate, each man expounded on the virtues of Amber Mac and the possibility of the thoroughbred becoming the newest horse-racing sensation.

Brady washed down a bite of hamburger with some lemonade. No time like the present to state his case. “Let me train him, Dad.”

Marshall put his burger down. “Whoa, son. That’s a powerful ambition from a guy who, until just recently, had no interest in the business.”

“I never said that. Anyway, I’ve been involved since I returned from Vegas—”

“As a front-office man,” Marshall said. “You have a lot to learn about training a racehorse.”

Brady frowned. “Right. And I won’t get much experience as long as you use me to meet with track execs and state gaming officials.”

“You’ll get your chance,” Marshall said. “A face man is what we need now. You’ve done a lot for the Cross Fox image since you’ve been back. People like you. They’re impressed by you.”

“They’re impressed by my football stats, you mean.”

Marshall didn’t argue.

“Look, Dad, I can train Amber Mac. What I haven’t learned from you all these years, Dobbs taught me. I’m ready. It’s what I want to do. If I’m going to build a reputation as a trainer and restore your confidence in me, I’d like to start with this colt.”

Marshall stared at him. “I’m sure you would. But I don’t know if I’m ready to put the future of a forty-three-thousand-dollar thoroughbred on a rookie trainer, even if he is my son.” Marshall was never one to pull any punches. “Besides, how do I know you won’t get another burr under your saddle and take off? How do I know you won’t end up in Vegas at the end of a craps table again?”

Brady bit back a retort. How many times did he have to hear this? Marshall had been in favor of his son’s decision to play with the Cowboys after college. But when Brady’s knee injury ended his career—and his marriage—Marshall certainly hadn’t approved of Brady’s decision to try his luck as a professional player in Las Vegas.

“Look, Dad,” he said through clenched teeth. “Forget about the past. It’s over and I’m here to stay.”

“And I’m glad of it,” Marshall said. “Cross Fox is your home. And as long as you only scratch your gambling itch with your local poker games, I’ve got no complaints. A man’s got to have a few vices.”

“Well, you’re welcome to scratch your own itch this week,” Brady muttered, glad to change the topic. “The game’s tonight and I told Jake I’d be back in time to make it. There’ll probably be some open chairs. Do either of you want to come?”

Marshall frowned. “Jake? That means he’s hosting in the old Wild Card Saloon.”

“Yeah.”

“Count me out. That place is still a wreck. Sat empty for too long and Jake’s uncle sure never took care of it.”

“Jake’s taking interest in it now that he decided not to sell,” Brady explained. “He and Cole are fixing it up. It’s looking pretty good.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Marshall said. “Look, I like Jake Chandler. But you’d better not mention to your mother that you’re hanging out with him again. She still thinks he was a bad influence on you.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Brady slammed his lemonade down harder than he’d intended. “If anything, back when we were in high school, it was the other way around. Or at least it was mutual. Why do you think everyone called us the Wild Bunch?”

Marshall put his hands up in a gesture of defeat. “Hey, I’m willing to give Jake a chance. I’m just warning you that your mother hasn’t forgiven or forgotten his antics in high school.”

Brady turned to Dobbs. “What about you? Want to play?”

“I’ll be bushed after riding in the truck with you guys for four hours,” Dobbs said.

“Suit yourselves.” When he returned home from Vegas, Brady realized how much he’d missed his friends from River Bluff, men in their thirties now with adult problems and ambitions. Some of them had strayed, as Brady had, to different parts of the world, but now they were back and playing a weekly Texas Hold ’Em poker game. And for Brady, at this time in his life, the friendly wagering and camaraderie were just what he needed.

Dobbs popped the last of his burger into his mouth and followed it with a ketchup-soaked fry. “Still, if you ask me, it’s a damn shame.”

Brady gave him a quizzical look. “What is?”

“You’re the best poker player I know. You’ve got good instincts and all those college smarts. I just think if you’d stuck with poker up there in Vegas, you would have won a big tournament and been set for life.”

Brady held up his hand hoping to erase the scowl on his father’s face. “I left when I should have—I was losing more than just money.”

Dobbs pushed his plate away and brushed a shock of graying red hair off his forehead. “You coulda’ won though, couldn’t you?” he coaxed. “It’s just the three of us now, Brady. You can level with us. You were good enough for the big tournaments. You coulda’ won some big pots.”

Brady rubbed his hand down his face. He smiled at Dobbs. “Yeah, I could have won. But before you start thinking I’m some sort of poker god, let me tell you something. Anybody can win at the big tournaments—and anybody can lose. With intensive study of poker odds, some training in reading opponents and money management and the proper alignment of the planets, almost anybody can be coached to win.”

Dobbs leaned forward. “You really think so?”

“Sure. Poker’s more skill than luck.”

“So if you wanted to, you could take some cowpoke off the street and teach him the game?”

Brady considered his answer for a moment. “Cowpoke, politician, garbage collector. Anybody with an average level of intelligence can be taught. And yes, I could teach him.”

Marshall chuckled. “I see you haven’t lost that old Carrick confidence, son.”

His dad was wrong. A career-ending knee injury, a failed marriage and a foolish run at the most player-unfriendly games in Vegas had destroyed his confidence. Not to mention the life-altering tragedy that forced Brady to pack up and leave on the next plane for San Antonio. But he was trying to get his self-respect back. He was finding some of it at the weekly poker game where he generally won more than his share of pots.

“I’d be happy to prove it to you,” he said. “You pick the person, Dad, and I’ll teach him to play. The quarter finals of the U.S. Poker Play-offs is coming up in just a little more than five weeks. I’ll bet you I can coach that guy into a seat at the final table.”

Marshall covered his shock with a belly laugh. “Interesting bet. Just exactly what are we wagering on, Brady?”

This conversation had suddenly taken a serious turn. For a second Brady wondered if he was getting in over his head. But he quickly banished that thought. He was a damn good poker player. “Tell you what, Dad. If I have your pick at the final table in the USP, you give me training rights to Amber Mac.”

Marshall sobered. “Big talk, Brady.”

“You think I can’t do it?”

“That’s right,” he said. “I think you can’t do it.”

Brady wasn’t about to back down. He knew his dad well enough to know that the gambler in him was intrigued. “Then what have you got to lose? Try me.”

Marshall looked at Dobbs. “What do you think? Should we give this upstart a chance to eat his words?”

“I don’t know.” Dobbs considered. “What do we get out of it if the kid loses the bet?”

Brady smiled. “I’ll pay your entry fees at the local game for one year.”

Both men eyed each other over the table. Hundreds of dollars were now at stake, making this a serious bet. “And we get to pick the person for the wager?” Marshall asked.

“You pick. But be reasonable. The guy has to be of age and have moderate intelligence.”

At that moment, Molly cleared her throat and tapped on her order pad. “Sorry to interrupt such momentous wagering, boys, but I thought you might want to bet on who gets the check.”

Dobbs chuckled before sitting back and leveling a serious look at her. “What about Molly?” he said to Marshall. “She’s clever.”

Brady glanced at Dobbs. He couldn’t be serious.

“Now, hold on, gentlemen,” she said. “My name has just been mentioned in the same conversation with the word wager. That’s enough to make anybody nervous.”

“Don’t be,” Dobbs said. “I’m presenting you with the chance of a lifetime. How would you like to be a student of Brady’s for a five-week course?”

She frowned. Not exactly a reaction designed to boost a guy’s ego, Brady thought, even if they were just kidding around.

“I don’t know anything about racehorses,” she said.

Dobbs grinned. “We’re not talking about horses. We’re talking about poker.”

“I know even less about that.”

Dobbs looked at the other two. “See? She’s perfect.”

Molly took a step back. “Perfect for what?”

Dobbs gave her a grin that was part confident Texan and part cocky Irishman. “What do you say, sweetheart? You want to come to River Bluff and learn to play poker from a master?”

CHAPTER TWO

POKER? Molly couldn’t suppress an unladylike bark of laughter. Her father would heat under the collar of his clerical robe if he knew she was about to even participate in a conversation about gambling. There wasn’t even a deck of cards in the modest house she shared with Luther Whelan.

She stared at Marshall Carrick, the man who carried the weight of Cross Fox Ranch on his broad shoulders, and waited for him to say something to make sense of this. When he didn’t, she picked up one of the empty glasses on the table and made a show of sniffing it. “I’m thinking you boys have been sipping something a whole lot stronger than lemonade.”

Brady smiled, an easy full-bodied grin that had her believing he could talk people into almost anything, just as she knew he had. The younger Carrick resembled his father in stature and size. But Brady’s bronzed complexion was less weathered. His light brown hair was sun-streaked and just long enough to fall over his forehead. The collar of his blue oxford-cloth shirt had a distinctive lack of Western ornamentation. Unusual for a horseman in the heart of Texas.

“It’s okay, Molly,” Brady said, his voice a smooth, cultured version of typical ranch-hand drawl. “We were just playing a game of ‘what if’ over lunch.”

Dobbs leaned forward. “‘What if?’ So now you’re backing out?”

“No. But there isn’t any reason to get Molly mixed up in this.”

“Of course there is,” Dobbs insisted. “We picked her.”

“This is getting weird.” Molly waved the check in the air. “Who’s going to pay this bill?”

Dobbs pointed to Brady. “Mr. Big Shot.”

Brady pulled his wallet out of his jeans.

“Here’s the thing, Molly,” Dobbs said. “Brady claims he can take a novice card player and lead him—or her—all the way to a final table at the Texas Hold ’Em quarter finals U.S. Poker Play-offs in Las Vegas in February.”

Molly had some knowledge of Texas Hold ’Em. Her husband, Kevin, had played the game when he was away on the rodeo circuit. “I’ve seen that on TV.”

“Sure you have,” Dobbs said. “The players that get to the last table in just the quarter finals can win, what, Brady? Thousands of dollars?”

He nodded. “This quarterly event draws mostly local players, and even sixth place can be a decent payoff.”

She pointed her pen at him. “And you think you can coach somebody who’s never played before to the final table?”

He shrugged. “Look, we were just shooting off steam.”

Marshall leaned back and smiled. “So you’re saying you can’t do it now?”

Brady scowled. “I can do it. But Molly doesn’t want to be involved. She must be thinking we’re crazy.”

“She’s involved already,” Dobbs said. “I told you—we picked her, didn’t we Marshall?”

“We were sure talking about it.”

“And Brady said it was our choice.”

“Yep, he did.”

Brady folded some bills in his hand. “Don’t let us keep you, Molly. Do I pay you or up at the counter?”

Determined he wasn’t about to put her off, she stared into the deepest green eyes she’d ever seen. “Pay me. And you’re not keeping me. It’s almost time for my break. I’ve known Dobbs for years. If he says they picked me for this wager, then I guess that puts the cards on my table.”

Brady chuckled, but it seemed a self-conscious effort to appear unruffled. He handed her the money.

She tucked it into her pocket. “So you can do it? You can teach me to play poker?”

“Sure, I could, but…”

“What would you get out of this?” she asked. “What’s at stake for you?”

“It’s personal.”

“Tell her,” Marshall said. “She’s got a right to know what we’re betting on.”

Brady stared at his father a good long moment before he said, “Not that I think that’s true, but okay.” He looked up at her. “I win the right to train the horse we just bought.”

“And this is important to you?” Molly said.

He didn’t answer that. He didn’t have to. The fire in his eyes was proof enough. “I see that it is,” she added.

Brady darted a quick uncomfortable glance at his companions before turning back to Molly. “But look, all that doesn’t matter. You have to understand what it would take to get to the final table. Long hours. Personal sacrifice. This is a tough training regimen for a woman.”

“For a woman?” Molly repeated.

Brady looked down. “Don’t take that the wrong way.”

The part of Molly that her father said she inherited from her mother and called her “rebel soul” flared to life. She was suddenly interested in this proposition for two reasons. She stated the first one. “If I won, would I get to keep the money?”

Marshall muffled his laughter behind his cupped hand. Dobbs didn’t even try.

“I don’t know,” Brady said. “We’d have to work that out. But we could come up with a fair split I suppose.” He shook his head, glared at Dobbs. “Look, I’m sorry we brought this up. Like I said, it’s a crazy idea and you can’t seriously be thinking of pursuing it.”

Oh, but she was. After all these years of Trevor Dobbs coming into this diner, fate had finally sent the legend of Cross Fox Ranch himself, Brady Carrick. Who was Molly Davis to spit in the eye of fate?

The name Brady Carrick had been playing like a sad movie in her head for a year and a half now. Every time she cried herself to sleep. Every time she carried another plate of runny eggs to a table in the diner. Every time she tried to tell her son why his daddy wasn’t coming home. So even without the substantial financial payoff he’d mentioned, reason number two for considering this would be incentive enough. She could ease some of that heartache Brady Carrick had inflicted on her and let him finance her way to a new beginning.

She’d never get her life back the way it was, but just maybe the guy who stood to inherit Cross Fox Ranch would pay for what he’d done to Kevin by helping his widow and son start over. If she won, she could buy a nice, cozy house for her and Sam far away from Prairie Bend and the rules set by Luther Whelan. She stacked the empty plates from the table and gave the men her most winning smile. No matter what happened, she had to think of the tip.

Brady slid out of his seat. “It was nice meeting you, Molly.”

The first signs of panic tingled down her spine. They were leaving. “Have a good trip back,” she said.

The three walked out of the restaurant, and Molly went over to the cash register. Struggling with a mountain of indecision, she absently passed the money over the counter. You’d better do something pretty darn quick, Molly Jean, she said to herself. When these men drive out of the parking lot, they’re taking your opportunity with them. You’ll probably never see Brady Carrick again or get the chance to make him pay.

She watched out the window as the men crossed the lot to a pickup truck with a horse trailer hitched to the back. Brady opened the driver’s side door and got in, and in that split second she made up her mind.

“I’m going on break, Uncle Cliff.”

He picked up the money. “Okay, but hurry back. I need you to fill the ketchup bottles.”

She headed to the door.

“Wait a minute, Molly,” her uncle called. “Your tip’s in here.”

She hurried back. The lunch tab had been just under twenty-two dollars, and Brady had given her thirty. She took the eight dollars change and stuffed it in her pocket.

“That’s a good tip,” Cliff said.

“Yeah.” Though she definitely needed the money, she grumbled to herself, “No wonder Dobbs called him Mr. Big Shot.”

LEANING OVER to look out the passenger door, Brady watched Molly come across the parking lot. A cool breeze whipped the ends of her ponytail around her face and shaped her skirt to the curvy outline of her legs. Brady couldn’t look away. For a moment he imagined her in the hill country around River Bluff standing on a rolling green crest, not here in a dusty diner parking lot.

“Look there,” Dobbs said. “Molly’s walking over.”

Brady patted his pockets. “We must have left something on the table. Did either of you forget something?”

Marshall shook his head. “Got my wallet and checkbook. Cell phone’s in the glove box.”

Brady set his elbow on the steering wheel. “Then what does she want?”

“Only one way to find out,” Dobbs said. “Hush up and listen.”

She stopped within a few feet of the open door, where Marshall and Dobbs stood. She leaned over to peer into the truck cab at Brady. “Something wrong?” he said.

“No. Just came out here to tell you I’ll do it.”

He knew darned well what she meant, but he needed to buy time to catch his breath. “Do what?”

“I’ll learn poker.”

Dobbs slapped his thigh. “Hot damn. That’s what I like. A woman with gumption.”

Brady gave him a warning glare, got out of the truck and walked around to her. “You can’t be serious.”

“You keep saying that. But I am.”

“Look, we were just kidding in there.”

“I wasn’t,” Dobbs said. “You weren’t serious about wanting to train Amber Mac?”

Brady narrowed his eyes. “You know I meant every word of that.”

“Then I can only assume you meant every word of the wager.”

Marshall smiled in a noncommittal sort of way. “I heard the bet. It was clear to me. But I’m going to leave this up to the three of you.”

Brady stared at Molly. She held his gaze with about as much determination as he’d ever seen. “I can’t let you do this,” he said. “First of all, I’ve never played poker with a…”

Her eyes sparked, just enough for him to know that what he was about to say had better stop before it left his mouth. Hell, he loved women, considered them different but equal, and he was comfortable with that view of the sexes. Especially the different part. But he didn’t know if he could enjoy his appreciation for feminine virtues over the green felt of a poker table.

She arched her eyebrows, took a step forward. “You don’t have a problem teaching poker to a woman, do you?”

He held up his hand and hoped she believed him when he said, “Of course not. But you’ve got to give this a lot of thought.”

“I have. And I’m not agreeing to this lightly. I’ve watched poker tournaments on TV. The game doesn’t look all that hard to me. I can learn it and I can sure use the money.”

It was as if a whole bale had just dropped down in front of him and he had to start grasping for every straw he could get his hands on. “But what about your job? You’d have to leave it to come to Cross Fox in River Bluff.”

She feigned a sorrowful look over her shoulder. “Leaving all this would be a real shame, wouldn’t it?”

“And what about family? There must be people who would worry about you.”

“I wouldn’t be leaving anybody that matters.” She pointed through the window. “See that man at the counter?”

Brady looked at the middle-aged guy behind the cash register. “Yeah.”

“That’s Cliff. He owns the diner and he’s my uncle. As long as there’s a waitress here to fill the ketchup bottles, he won’t miss me.”

Brady figured there had to be someone in her life who could raise hell if she took off, so he asked the most important question. “Are you married?”

“No.”

He thought of the cowboy she’d flirted with a while ago. “Have you got a brawny boyfriend with a high-voltage ego who’d come after you?”

“No.”

“How about other responsibilities? You must have bills here, maybe a mortgage.”

“No. Free and clear.”

There was something about her. Her determination impressed him even as it warned him about possible complications down the road. “How will you get by financially if you leave your job?”

“That needs to be a condition of my training. It’s five weeks?”

“About that.”

“You’ll have to pay my board. It’s only fair.” She didn’t even blink.

Brady raked his hand through his hair. He was beginning to wonder just what this woman might consider “only fair” once the training had begun. But then he pictured Amber Mac, the finest horse he’d ever laid eyes on. Maybe the bet was crazy, but the consequences were real enough. His father was a man of his word and if he said Brady could train the horse if he won this bet, then that’s what would happen.

He gave Molly a serious head-to-toe appraisal. She stared right back at him. She had guts. Her answers were quick and decisive. She was obviously ambitious and she wasn’t afraid of taking a risk. These were all good qualities in a poker player. Maybe this would work out. All he had to do was set some limits, let her know he was the boss. If she listened and worked hard, he could make her a success at the U.S. Poker Play-offs. After all, the world of high-stakes poker was full of exciting underdog stories and Molly from Cliff’s Diner might be another one.

She placed her hands on her hips. “I don’t know what you’re thinking about, Brady, but I’ve got to have an answer. My break’s over and there are some hungry cowboys inside who want their lunch.” Never flinching, she added, “I can do this. You won’t be sorry. So what’ll it be?”

He pulled out a business card for Cross Fox Ranch and handed it to her. “You think about this very carefully. If it doesn’t work and you don’t end up with a nice bankroll, you might want to make sure your uncle will give you your job back. At the end of five weeks, win or lose, it’s over. You’ve got to understand that.”

She put the card in her pocket. “No problem.”

He got his hat from the cab, smoothed his hair back and pulled the crown of the felt Wrangler low over his brow. “We’ve got to go. If I see you, I see you. But don’t wait too long. If I don’t do this with you, I’ll be looking for someone else.”

“Fair enough.”

He turned to head back around the truck but stopped and allowed himself one more lingering look at her. “You know where I am?”

“I do.”

Brady was damn sure it would be the last time he ever saw Molly and, surprisingly, he was feeling bad about that. He got in the truck. Marshall climbed in beside him followed by Dobbs, who gave Molly a thumbs-up. As he pulled out of the parking lot, Brady looked in the side-view mirror. The tires had kicked up a good bit of dust, but he could see her walking back toward the diner, a sway in her hips. “I expect that’s the end of the wager,” he said to the other guys.

“You’re probably right,” Marshall said. “And it’s for the best I suppose. But it was a fun diversion while it lasted.”

Dobbs smiled. “You boys don’t know Molly.”

Clifford Whelan set his spatula next to the hot grill and wiped his hands on his apron. He didn’t like filling in for the diner’s short-order cook, but Jessie had gotten off early to take his daughter to the doctor. Already grumpy, Cliff scowled at his niece. “What do you mean you won’t be in to work tomorrow?”

“You weren’t listening, Uncle Cliff,” she said. “I told you I might not be in at all after today.”

“What are you talking about?”

She pinned a lunch order to the wheel under the warming lights. “I’m taking a long vacation, maybe a permanent one.”

“You can’t do that. I need you here. You’ve got to give notice.”

“You’ll be fine,” she said. “Madge’s sister, Junie, wants a job. I’ll tell Madge to have her show up in the morning. June’s a real nice girl, a quick learner.”

Cliff frowned, picked up the spatula and flipped a row of burgers. “What kind of vacation are you talking about? I’ve never known you to just take off. Where are you going?”

She sighed. He was right. Molly couldn’t remember ever having a true vacation in all her thirty years. As a child, she’d gone with her father to religious conferences, not much fun for a girl who found rules hard to follow. Her so-called vacations didn’t get much better when she was married to Kevin. Before Sam was born, she’d traipse along with her husband to dusty show arenas and the low-budget motels that catered to rodeo cowboys. Since this trip wasn’t for pleasure, either, she’d definitely given her uncle a false impression of her plans.

“I’m going south, around San Antonio,” she told him.

Cliff layered cheese on all the burgers. “Who do you know in San Antone?”

“I’ve got friends there.”

He gave her a suspicious glance. “Since when?”

Since a half hour ago, and I can’t really say they’re friends. “Since I went to community college,” she lied. “They’ve invited me and Sam to come stay a while. I might even get a job there.”

“What does your daddy have to say about this?”

“He doesn’t exactly know yet.”

Cliff blew out a long breath. “Oh, great. I don’t want to be around when he hears this.”

Molly coughed.

“He does care about you, Molly.” Cliff smiled. “And he’s awfully fond of Sam. Talks about him all the time. And remember, he took you in when Kevin died.”

“Of course I remember that—I’ve thanked him at least a hundred times.” Despite having to listen to him rant about what a terrible husband Kevin was.

“Plus, he’s gotten used to having you run his house.”

She reached for a pair of platters her uncle had set under the lights. “Right. He’s fine with me cooking and cleaning, so long as I don’t complain about the rules or interrupt him when he’s telling me what a mess I’ve made of my life.”

Cliff conceded her analysis with a nod. “He’s a hard man to live with. He never got over your mother running out.”

Molly pushed that bad memory to the back of her mind. Her father wasn’t the only one who’d suffered over her mother’s abandonment. She checked the orders to make sure they were correct. “He’ll just have to get by without me,” she said. “This is an opportunity for us and I’d be stupid to pass it up.”

“What are you going to do about Sam’s school?”

“He’ll only miss tomorrow and Friday. And it’s only second grade. I’ll get him into a class on Monday in the new place.”

He gave her a fatherly look. “You got money enough to move on? I might be able to lend you a few bucks.”

She smiled at him. Cliff really was a kind man, nothing like his brother. While Cliff, with a couple dozen excess pounds, was a soft and comfy-looking man, Luther Whelan was all sharp bones and unforgiving angles. Molly often wished she’d been born to Cliff instead of Luther. Then, as a young girl she would have had a lap to sit on, and maybe her mother would have stuck around. “We’ll be fine,” she said, hating the hint of doubt in her voice. “I’ve got some savings.”

She headed toward the dining area with the plates. “Don’t tell Dad about this before I’ve had a chance,” she called over her shoulder. “I think he should hear it from me first.”

Cliff snickered. “You don’t have to worry about that. I’m not going near your house tonight.” He read the next order on the wheel and got back to work. “One more thing, Molly …”

She turned around. “What?”

“You take care of yourself. Life hasn’t been easy for you the last year or so. If this adventure of yours doesn’t work out the way you planned, you come on home. There will always be a place for you here at the diner.”

“Thanks, Uncle Cliff. That means a lot to me.”

MOLLY STOPPED at a drugstore on her way to pick Sam up at school and bought a map of Texas. Next she stopped at the bank and withdrew her entire savings, two thousand three hundred and twelve dollars. Not a fortune, but enough to get by for a couple of weeks if things didn’t work out at Cross Fox Ranch. And she had her credit card, which, thankfully, now had a low balance. At least she’d accomplished something worthwhile since Kevin had died. Living with her father, she’d managed to pay off some bills she and her husband had accumulated.

By the time she pulled into the driveway at her father’s house, Molly had a plan. When she reached River Bluff, her first stop would be Cross Fox Ranch. She’d told Brady Carrick he’d be responsible for her board, but even if that didn’t work out, she and Sam could stay in a motel while she looked for a part-time job. While Sam was at school, she’d divide her time between job hunting and learning poker.

If she eventually won a big pot in Vegas, then her future would be secure. She’d put that money toward opening a consignment shop for kids’ clothes. She’d got the idea when she was pregnant with Sam and picking up second-hand baby clothes and supplies. Maybe she’d even open up shop in River Bluff if she liked the small town. With her two years of college math, she could run a bookkeeping service on the side.

And if I don’t win at the U.S. Poker Play-offs… Molly unlocked the front door of her father’s house, followed Sam inside and set her purse on the hall table. Well, Uncle Cliff said there was always a place for me at the diner. It’s not like I haven’t gone back before.

She smiled at Sam. “You want some cookies, cowboy?”

He nodded, and went to the sink to wash his hands before sitting at the kitchen table. She set him up with milk and Oreos, sat beside him and ran her fingers through his sandy-brown hair. “Where’s that happy face, Sammy?”

His lips curled up at the edges in an effort to please her, and Molly’s heart ached. Sam didn’t smile nearly enough for a seven-year-old. Maybe all that would change once they got away from this stifling environment.

She glanced at the kitchen clock. Three-thirty. Her father would be home soon. He would meditate for an hour and then expect dinner promptly at six. She could depend on that. Luther Whelan never altered his schedule.

AT SEVEN-THIRTY, after she’d put the last dinner plate in the cupboard, Molly checked to make sure Sam’s door was closed and then went into the living room to face her father. Engrossed in the newspaper, he didn’t acknowledge her when she came in the room. “Dad?”

He looked up. “What is it?”

“I need to talk to you.”

He set his spectacles on the end table. “What’s wrong now?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said. “I just have news.”

He waited.

“I’m leaving Prairie Bend tomorrow. Sam and I are moving.”

He set the newspaper on his lap. “Don’t talk nonsense, Molly Jean.”

“It’s not nonsense.” She used the same lie she’d told Uncle Cliff earlier. “Friends have asked me to come to the San Antonio area. I have a job lined up that will support Sam and me…”

He looked around his neat, uncomplicated living room. “You don’t need to go anywhere. You’ve got everything a woman could want right here. I take care of you better than that husband of yours ever did.”

“I know you provide a home for us, Dad, but it’s not enough. Not for me and not for Sam.”

He glowered at her. “You’re not taking my grandson away,” he stated as if it were an indisputable fact.

“Sam is my son. He’s going where I go.”

“I won’t hear of it. Sam needs a strong hand, which he won’t get under your influence. If that mistake of a marriage didn’t teach you that—”

“A discussion of my marriage and my son is off-limits.” Molly’s stomach churned.

He exhaled deeply. “Have you forgotten that I took you back in after that…that rodeo bum died?”

“No, and I’m grateful, but that’s in the past. You don’t have to bring it up again.”

“Fine. Then let’s talk about how this irrational decision will affect me.” He rolled the newspaper and pointed it at her. “Have you considered how your actions will embarrass me in front of my congregation again? I’ve raised you on my own, Molly. It wasn’t easy after your mother left, but I’ve tried to teach you proper values. And all I’ve received for my effort is disrespect. I won’t let you make a mockery of my position in this community again.”

He wouldn’t even hear her out. He didn’t care about her feelings, her needs, just like he probably never cared about her mother’s. Molly stared at the floor, anywhere but at the fire of self-righteousness in her father’s eyes. For a man who professed to dedicate his life to forgiveness and tolerance, Luther Whelan had a hard time showing either of those to his own daughter.

But then, Molly had known how he would react. She’d made sure Sam was busy with his toys in his room so he wouldn’t have to listen to his grandfather’s harsh words, but it was a small house and she was afraid he was hearing everything. Maybe her father did care about her in his own emotionally bereft way, but the environment he provided was void of real human interaction and she had to get out. She wasn’t about to back down.

The newspaper rattled in his hands and Molly looked up. “I won’t take you back,” he said. “If you go, it’s forever.”

“I don’t want to leave like this, Dad,” she said. “But I’m going. I’m sorry—”

“You’re never sorry,” he snapped. “Those are empty words from a woman who doesn’t think of anyone but herself.” And then he said the words designed to hurt her the most. “You’re just like your mother.”

“Leave her be, Luther.”

Cliff walked into the room from the kitchen, silencing both of them. “It’s her life. She’s going and that’s that.”

Molly nearly cried. Despite his promise not to come to the house tonight, he was here. She could have kissed him right there on the spot.

“This isn’t your concern, Cliff,” Luther said.

“I’m making it my concern. Molly’s a good girl. She deserves a chance to get out of this place.”

“I won’t take her in when she comes crawling back.”

“You won’t have to. If she needs to, she can stay with Edith and me.”

Uncle Cliff waved her out of the room, asking her if she didn’t have suitcases she needed to pack. Grateful, Molly escaped any further recrimination from her father.

Now Uncle Cliff was gone and her dad sat on the front porch in the chilly January air, no doubt trying to figure out how his only child could have strayed so far. And he didn’t even know that her plans involved gambling.

At nine o’clock Molly stretched out on the twin bed next to her son, propped a pillow behind her back and crossed her ankles. She twisted the cowboy lamp on the nightstand so its light fell on the map in her lap. “You want to see where we’re going tomorrow?” she asked Sam.

“Sure, Mama. Is it a long way?”

“It’s pretty far. We’re starting here on this big road called Highway 35…” she traced a line south with her finger “…all the way to another highway, which leads us to River Bluff. That’s where we’ll stop.”

“How long will it take us to get there?”

“I’d say about four hours, depending on how often we stop.” She smiled at him. “Part of the fun of traveling is stopping along the road.”

Sam looked up at her, a worried frown marring his chubby angelic features. “I don’t think it’ll be fun at all.”

“For heaven’s sake, why not?”

“’Cause when Grandpa found out we were going, he was plenty mad. So it must not be a fun thing to do.”

“You shouldn’t worry about Grandpa, baby,” she said. “He won’t stay mad. Why, I’ll bet that in a day or two he’ll have forgotten he was angry and will want to hear all about our adventure!” If there was a way to keep communications open between her father and her son, Molly would. “You can write him a letter if you want. He’d like that.”

Molly wrapped her arm around Sam’s shoulders and pulled him close. “Besides, I think we’re going to have lots of fun. And if we don’t, then we’ll go someplace else. Texas is a big state.” She held up the map to illustrate her point. “Maybe you can pick the place next time.” She stood up, kissed his cheek and turned off the lamp. “Just go to sleep now, Sammy. I’m going to stay in your room a while to pack up your things.”

She handed him his favorite stuffed pony and he snuggled into his blankets. “G’night, Mama.”

By the faint glow of his nightlight, she neatly folded his clothes into a suitcase. While she worked, the last moments between her father and her uncle played in her mind. Luther had said he was sick and tired of dealing with the mistakes his daughter made of her life and trying to explain to his congregation how a supposedly God-fearing child could grow up to cast such a shadow of shame over her family name.

Sometime, years ago, her father had stopped thinking of Molly as an individual and began to see her as an extension of her mother. Two women whose identical sinful natures conspired to ruin his life and reputation. That was sad, but Molly couldn’t do anything about it. Maybe she was too much like her mother. And maybe she wanted to be.

She closed Sam’s suitcase and filled a box with his favorite toys. Thinking he was asleep, she tiptoed to the door. “Mama?”

She looked back at the bed. Sam lay perfectly still, but his voice was hoarse with a little boy’s determination. “I think I’ll wait and see if Grandpa writes me first.”

“That’s fine, sweetie.”

She left the room more convinced than ever that she and her son were two people very much in need of an adventure.

CHAPTER THREE

BRADY HUNG HIS HAT on a hook in the mudroom and left his boots by the back door. After washing his hands at the utility tub, he went to the kitchen where he snuck up behind Ruby, the woman who’d been the family cook since he was a boy, and kissed her warm brown neck. She swatted at him. “I knew you were back there,” she said. “You can’t surprise me anymore. Not since you’ve grown four feet and put on a hundred pounds.”

He laughed. “I guess a six-foot-three man has lost some of the upper hand when it comes to surprise attacks.”

She tried not to smile. “You wash those hands?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You hungry?”

“You need to ask?”

“Go on in the sunroom. Your daddy wanted lunch in there today. I’ve got it set up on the buffet.”

He went down the hallway past his father’s study, a guest bathroom and the formal dining room and entered the cheerful six-sided glassed-in area his mother had designed when the house was built. She referred to it as the conservatory and filled it with hanging ferns and philodendron, but everyone else called it the sunroom.

Marshall set down his newspaper and looked closely at Brady. “Late night?” he said.

“You could say that.”

“Did you win at least?”

“Came out okay despite having a lot on my mind.” He glanced at his father’s plate and the remains of something once smothered in gravy. Another test for Brady’s arteries, but whatever was in the chafing dish smelled too good to pass up. He headed to the buffet table. “I’m guessing stew,” he said.

“Ruby’s specialty. And mighty tasty.”

Brady ladled two helpings onto a plate, picked up a couple of biscuits from under a cloth napkin and chose a seat across the table from his father. “Where’s Mom?”

“Still sleeping, I guess,” Marshall said. “I was beat when we got home from Henley’s last night and turned in early. Angela was still in the den. I don’t know what time she came upstairs.”

Brady was sorry to hear this news. Before he’d left for the poker game, he’d come to the house to tell his mother about Amber Mac. It was after dark and he’d found her in front of the television. She was staring vacantly at an old black-and-white movie and he saw a drink in her hand. It only took a minute for him to realize she’d obviously started drinking at the cocktail hour and had continued with rum and Cokes well into the evening. Her interest in the new colt had been cool at best.

“Are you still having the hoedown on Sunday?” The annual event, which began at Cross Fox twenty-nine years ago to celebrate Marshall’s thirtieth birthday had become a Carrick family tradition. Brady figured his dad might cancel the party if Angela wasn’t up to hosting.

Marshall furrowed his brow. “Of course. Folks expect it. Besides, a man can’t stop living just because…” He never finished his thought and instead went to the buffet, filled a bowl with peaches and poured heavy cream over the top. “Are any of your friends from the poker game coming?”

Brady had invited Blake, Cole, Jake and Luke, the four regulars on Texas Hold ’Em nights. “Yes, they’re coming. Along with their girlfriends and wives.” Marshall knew Blake’s wife, Annie. She was a reporter for the River Bluff newspaper and expecting their first child. And Brady figured his dad would remember Rachel Diamonte, a former River Bluff prom queen, who’d recently come back to town. She and Jake had a history to mend, but since he’d hired her to renovate the bar they’d worked out their differences and were planning a future together. But he’d never met Tessa, the new love of Cole Lawry’s life.

“So Jake’s coming to the party?” Marshall said.

“Yep. Mom’s just going to have to accept that.”

“It’ll be all right. Your mother likes Luke, at least. There’s no better people than that whole Chisum clan.”

They ate in silence until Marshall scooped the last of the fruit from his bowl. He sat back. “Did you time those three-year-olds on the half mile this morning?”

“Sure did. Jodie’s Girl cut five seconds off her previous time. I breezed the two stallions with her, but they didn’t improve. In my opinion, though, Jodie’s ready for a claiming race.”

Marshall nodded. “She’s a good strong filly. How’s Amber Mac today?”

“Seems okay. I’m going to feed him when I’m done here.”

“Not too much. He’s not showing hog fat, but we’ve got to trim him down anyway.”

“I know, Dad. We talked about this. I won’t overfeed him.” Brady sopped up a pool of gravy with a biscuit. “At breakfast I went over the vet reports on him again. His vaccinations are up-to-date and his vitamin regimen seems appropriate for his age and weight.” He pushed his plate back and stood. He shouldn’t have to prove himself to his father every time they talked, yet he constantly felt the need to. “I’ve got to go, Dad. See you later.”

Marshall picked up his paper and resumed reading.

Brady returned to the mudroom for his boots and hat. He left by the back entrance and headed across the two hundred yards of lush green lawn that separated the stables from the house. He regretted not taking the golf cart…his knee was acting up. But he believed in the old-fashioned theory that pain can be walked off. Dodger, the family’s Jack Russell terrier yapped at his heels. “Where did you come from? I didn’t see you begging for scraps at lunch.”

The dog alternated between scuttling on his belly and nipping at the hem of Brady’s jeans. “Calm down. And stop that barking. We’re almost at the stables. You’re supposed to be a horse’s companion, not his biggest aggravation.”

They reached the stalls and Brady told Dodger to stay put, out of sight of Amber Mac. Predictably, the terrier didn’t pay any mind. Instead, he scratched at the bottom half of Mac’s door and resumed yipping. Amber Mac reared, hitting his rump against the back of the stall.

At the sound of laughter behind him, Brady whirled around. Dobbs picked up Dodger, set him in the yard, put his hand up in front of the animal’s face and said, “Stay!” Dodger didn’t move and Brady experienced renewed admiration for the trainer. And a bit of jealousy.

Dobbs walked over to him. “That’s what comes from a dog not knowing his place in the scheme of things around here,” he said. “In the daylight, that crazy pup is out here at the stables, then come evening, Angela gives him a bath in perfumed shampoo so he can sleep on a velvet pillow at the foot of her bed.” Dodger hadn’t moved, but was panting with excitement, probably anticipating his next opportunity to sneak back to the stalls. “You don’t know where you belong, do you, boy?” Dobbs said. He clucked his tongue a few times at Amber Mac and coaxed the animal to the door. “He’s acting skittish. I think it’s more than Dodger bothering him.”

“He’s probably hungry.” With a slow, deliberate motion, Brady lifted his hand to stroke the thoroughbred’s nose. “Time for lunch, fella.”

Mac jerked his head out of reach.

“Okay, so we’re not best friends yet.”

Dobbs handed Brady a feed bucket. “He’s only getting a pound of oats,” Dobbs said. “He’s been on grass and doesn’t need any more than that.”

Brady poured the oat pellets into the feed bucket. The horse immediately began to eat.

“Let’s leave him be,” Dobbs said, motioning for Brady to follow him. “Don’t get discouraged. This is only his first full day at Cross Fox. He needs a good week or two to adjust to his new environment, even if these are the luxury accommodations.”

Brady stopped halfway to the house and looked back. Dobbs turned to see what had caught his eye. The stables, built of brick and pine, stretched in a U-shaped arc with a stone statue of a thoroughbred in the center. Dutch doors opened onto each twelve-by-twelve stall. In the summer, when temperatures soared above ninety degrees, fans circulated continuously, keeping the horses cool and flies at bay.

Two full-time grooms cleaned brushes and kept the horses’ coats glossy. A pair of stable hands washed feed buckets and mucked stalls twice a day. An industrial washing machine was constantly running, keeping blankets, bandages and wraps sanitary. The Cross Fox gardener manicured the lawn around the stable until it resembled a putting green and kept oak planters in front of each stall. This month they were still filled with the brilliant red poinsettias of the holiday season. Marshall spared no expense.

Amber Mac’s accommodations were the best of the best. His stall opened onto a private paddock so he could come and go at will, allowing him the exercise needed to trim to an acceptable weight.

Brady crossed his arms and watched as Mac, finished with his meal, trotted into the paddock and stood with his head over the fence. “He’s got it pretty good.”

Dobbs started to comment but the sound of a car’s laboring engine interrupted him. “You expecting company?”

“Not me.” Brady peered down the half-mile drive. A rolling speck of white approached in a cloud of dust. “Who do we know who drives a tiny foreign thing like that?” he asked Dobbs.

“Nobody I can think of.”

But suddenly Brady knew. Strands of dark brown hair whipped from the driver’s window. George Strait blared from the radio. “Uh, Dobbs?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember seeing that car in Cliff’s parking lot?”

The car stopped two-thirds of the way around the circular drive, just past the entrance to the house. “Damn, Brady,” he said. “That sure looks like our Molly.”

“Shit, no, it can’t be.” Brady pushed his hat back from his forehead. “Sweet mercy, Dobbs, it’s her. And she’s got somebody else in the car.”

Molly shut off the engine. Dust settled over the car, turning the faded exterior a gritty beige. She raked her fingers through her mussed hair, gathered it into a bunch and deftly wound some sort of band around it. She stepped out of the car and leaned an elbow on the top. “You told me not to wait too long,” she said. “I guess this should be quick enough for you.”

He tried to think of something to say, but his head was filled with the chug of her car as it came up the drive and the snorts of amusement coming from Dobbs. Not to mention the appearance of a woman who looked entirely different from the demure waitress in a red dress. This Molly filled out a pair of jeans about as well as anyone could. Her long-sleeved blouse opened at her neck revealing a turquoise charm dipping from a silver chain all the way down between… He looked up like a kid caught with his eyes on a centerfold.

She stepped away from the car and smoothed her hands down the sides of her jeans. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

“You could have called first,” he said, and resisted the urge to slap his hand against his forehead before something else equally inane came from his mouth.

“I didn’t think it was necessary. We pretty well sealed the deal yesterday.”

Had they? Well, yeah, he supposed she was right. But he hadn’t expected her to actually show up. Yet here she was, standing in his driveway, her car loaded to the tops of its windows with stuff. And something else. He pointed. “Who’s in the car?”

She leaned into the driver’s window. “You can get out, Sammy. It’s okay. This is the place I told you about.”

The passenger door opened and a kid emerged, his sneakers crunching on the fine white gravel of the Carricks’ drive. He stood there, the brim of a Dallas Mavericks ball cap shadowing his eyes and nose. A worn cotton horse, its hind legs squeezed in the kid’s fist, dangled beside him. In the other hand, he gripped a plastic Slurpee cup. A T-shirt emblazoned with Prairie Bend Elementary School hung to the knees of a pair of husky-sized jeans.

Molly hurried around the car and put her hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Say hi to Mr. Carrick and Mr. Dobbs.”

The horse jerked upward, its front legs wiggling. “Hi.”

“This is my son,” she explained, as if it made perfect sense for her to descend on Cross Fox Ranch with family in tow. “His name is Sam.”

Dobbs stepped forward and grinned at the kid. “Hello, Sam.”

Brady acknowledged him with a nod. A silence which might have become uncomfortable was broken by Dodger. The dog darted around Dobbs and ran at the kid, barking excitedly and wagging his stub of a tail.

Molly yanked the boy behind her. “Keep the dog back, will you?”

Brady released a snort of laughter. “That dog’s not going to bite.”

“I don’t know that.”

Dobbs called Dodger back and did his magic hand thing again to quiet the animal.

Brady stared at Molly. “I thought you said you didn’t have any family.”

“I believe I said I wasn’t leaving behind anyone that matters. That’s true. I brought Sam with me.”

“A kid isn’t part of the deal.”

She settled her hand on Sam’s ball cap. “No, he isn’t.”

“But how…?”

“You let me worry about that. It’s not your problem.”

“Like hell—” She scowled at him, and he clamped his mouth shut.

“If you’d like to discuss this later, I’d be happy to,” she said. “Now’s not the time.”

If ever a man felt like he was being rail-roaded, this was it. When Brady got up that morning, he never thought he’d be trying to figure out what to make of Molly. He never believed he’d actually end up teaching her the ins and outs of poker. And he never figured that if she did show, she’d bring a carload of baggage that included a lot more than a few suitcases of clothes.

Brady reached in his back pocket and took out his wallet. “What’d it cost you to get here, Molly? I wouldn’t want you to make the drive back today so here’s enough for a motel room and dinner tonight. There’s a nice place in town…”

She took a couple of steps toward him. “I don’t want traveling expenses. I want the lessons. That’s what you told me I’d get.”

He frowned. “That was yesterday. And you brought a lot more to the table than you ever told me about, so why don’t you take the money, head on back to Prairie Bend and we’ll call the whole thing off.”

She breathed deeply and spoke so low he had to lean in to hear her. That damn silver chain glinted in the sunlight and he had to remind himself to keep his eyes off it. “Okay,” she said, “maybe I should have told you about Sam.”

“You think?”

“But if I had, you wouldn’t have offered me the deal.”

“Damn straight.”

She rolled her eyes to Sam. “Language.”

Somehow he reined in his temper. “Why don’t you take Molly’s son for a walk?” he said to Dobbs.

“Sure. I can do that.”

It was a great plan in theory, only the kid wouldn’t budge. “Sit in the car, honey,” she said to him. He got inside and sucked on the Slurpee.

Molly turned back to Brady. “Look, I’m sorry about blindsiding you, but Sam’s going to start school soon. And when he’s not in school, he won’t be any trouble. He’s a well-behaved boy. I will need to spend time with him, of course, but I’m sure you and I will find all the opportunities we need to study.” Sensing he wasn’t convinced, she added, “And I’m a fast learner. Really, I am. And I want to do this. I’m prepared to study hard and listen to everything you tell me.”

He slanted a suspicious look at her. “Just exactly why do you want to learn poker, Molly? What do you want the money for?”

She parroted the line he’d given her the day before. “It’s personal.”

“I didn’t get away with saying that yesterday,” he said. “Why should I let you get away with it today?”

“You don’t need to know,” she evaded. “I did need to have answers about your motives. I’m the one taking a chance. I’m the outsider.”

“You’ve got to give me something, Molly.”

“I need a fresh start.” She stared intently at him, like she’d done when they first met in the diner. “All you need to know is that when this is over, I’ll leave. Like you explained yesterday, win or lose, I’ll be out of your life. I give you my word.”

Her word? What did Brady know about the word of a woman he’d just met? And yet he believed what she was saying. Unfortunately, believing did not mean he was ready to take on the responsibility of a newly unemployed waitress and her silent, overweight kid.

“What’s going on out here?” Marshall’s booming voice captured everyone’s attention. He strode out the front door, crossed the veranda and came down the steps. Stopping at the edge of the drive, he looked at the overstuffed vehicle that Brady had now identified as an older model Honda, bent to check out the boy inside and turned his focus to the three adults several yards away. He thrust his hands on his hips and said, “Damn, if you didn’t show up after all.”

“Hello, Mr. Carrick.”

He jutted a thumb at the car. “Is the kid yours?”

“He is.”

He shook his head. “Double damn.”

Molly glanced at the car. “Please, Mr. Carrick, can’t you men say anything without swearing?”

He touched the brim of his hat. “Begging your pardon.” He focused on Brady. “I guess the bet’s in full swing now, isn’t it, son?”

Brady frowned. “We’re still working out the details. I wasn’t exactly prepared for their arrival.”

“You shoulda’ been. She told you she was coming.”

“Yes, but I thought she was just… Besides, I didn’t know she’d have a…” The boy was staring out the window, probably hearing every word.

“He’s just a tyke,” Marshall said. “I can’t see that he’ll be much trouble.”

Molly’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you, Mr. Carrick. That’s exactly what I tried to tell your son.”

The front door opened again, and Angela appeared in a long flowing dressing gown with ostrich feathers fluttering at the hem and the ends of the sleeves. “I heard a car,” she said. “Do we have company?”

“Mom, this is Molly,” Brady said as she floated down the steps. “I met her yesterday. She’s come to work with me on a special project.”

Angela blinked rapidly several times. “What kind of project?”

“Has to do with poker,” Brady said.

Angela put her index finger to her bottom lip and stared at Molly. “How interesting. I’m sure you’ll give me more details later, won’t you, Brady?”

“Sure.”

“What’s your last name, dear?”

Molly turned away from Brady and answered Angela’s question. His mother’s small mouth rounded with interest. “Are you related to the Davises from King William Street in San Antonio?” she asked.

“No, ma’am. My maiden name is Whelan and I come from a small town outside Dallas.”

“I’m sure that’s nice, too.” Angela stared over Molly’s shoulder at the Honda. “Who’s in the car?”

“That’s my son, Sam.”

“What an angelic face,” Angela said. Brady didn’t know how she’d come to that conclusion, since he couldn’t see anything but the boy’s mouth and plastic straw from where he stood.

Angela turned to Brady. “Where are these people staying, dear? And for how long?”

Brady fumbled for a response. “A few weeks, maybe,” he said, still uncertain as to whether or not that was true. “And I don’t know where they’ll stay. They just got here.”

Angela looked at Dobbs. “Have you hired a new stable foreman yet, Trevor?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Perfect. Molly and Sam can stay in the apartment over the tack room.” She looked at Brady and noted his less than enthusiastic reaction. “What’s wrong? The apartment was recently refurbished. It’s convenient if you’ll be working together.”

How could he tell his mother that her impulsive suggestion was just another example of the way her mind had been working lately. Since he’d come home from Vegas, Angela either approached situations with misplaced enthusiasm or bland indifference. He would have preferred indifference today. “I think we should let Molly decide,” he said.

Chastised, her pale lips pulled into a frown, Angela murmured, “Of course.”

They both looked at Molly. “I think it’s a very generous offer,” she said. “I’m sure Sam and I could be comfortable there.”

Angela smiled. “Good. It’s settled.” She gathered the excess folds of her robe around her slim waist. “I’m going in now. I need coffee. Is breakfast being served in the conservatory?”

Marshall took her arm. “I’m afraid you’ve missed breakfast, Angela. You’ll have to settle for a late lunch.”

As they went toward the front entrance, Brady heard his mother ask, “What time is it, Marsh? I can’t imagine it’s much past nine.”

His answer was muffled as he led her inside.

Brady scrubbed his hand over the nape of his neck and looked at Molly. “So, do you want to see the apartment?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

“You can drive around to the front of the stables. I’ll meet you there.”

As he turned away from her, he heard Dobbs say, “Welcome aboard, Molly. I think you’ll like it here.”

It occurred to Brady that he hadn’t yet said anything remotely welcoming to Molly. And he was a long way from doing so. He had no idea what her angle was but he was certain that a woman who gave up everything to follow a crazy bet had to have one.

CHAPTER FOUR

SAM SAT ON THE LEATHER SOFA in the apartment above the tack room and channel-surfed the seemingly unending selection of television programs. “Wow, Mom,” he said. “This is the neatest TV. It’s huge.”

Molly came out of the bedroom where she’d been storing their clothes in twin knotty pine dressers. “It sure is,” she said, admiring the high-definition picture on the thirty-two inch flat-screen set. Her father’s TV got fifteen channels and operated with an antenna fashioned out of two crooked rabbit ears wrapped in aluminum foil.

Sam settled on a Western movie with cowboys galloping across a rugged prairie. Reaching for his Coke, he said, “This whole place is so cool.”

“Be sure you put the glass back on the coaster,” Molly advised. “Otherwise you’ll leave a mark on the table.” She agreed with Sam’s evaluation of their living quarters, but was trying not to appear overly impressed. After all, they’d be leaving all this behind in a few weeks. She didn’t know why the Carricks no longer had a stable foreman, but it couldn’t have been because he had a complaint about his apartment.

The living room was furnished with a butter-soft sofa and two brown leather chairs flanking a solid cherry coffee table. A game table and matching barrel chairs sat against a burgundy-painted wall. The pictures above it were typical Texas: prints of longhorn steer, fields of cattle, the capitol building in Austin. Each was framed to match the geometric rugs on the light maple floor.

The kitchen, with its expansive windows and white shutters, was a dream. Molly examined the top-of-the-line brushed-steel appliances, the hand-painted ceramic counters and the heavy oak dinette on the burnt-sienna Mexican-tile floor, imagining her uncle Cliff’s reaction. He would have given a week’s profit to prepare one meal in this state-of-the-art environment.

But the most pleasant surprise was the bedroom. A king-sized bed with a rustic four-post frame dominated the center of the room. It was covered in a plush Navajo spread, which matched the drapes on the two windows. A walk-in closet had built-in shelves where Molly was able to store Sam’s toys. Molly especially loved the window that looked out on the suede green lawn. She could picture herself reading for hours here with the sunlight streaming in.

She sat next to Sam on the sofa and pretended to watch the movie. “I can’t even imagine what the Carricks’ house must be like on the inside,” she said after a moment.

Sam looked up at her with wide brown eyes. “It can’t be any better than this one.”

She smiled. She couldn’t imagine Marshall Carrick or his son, Brady, designing the Victorian with gabled roofs, whimsical cupolas and stained-glass casement windows. She’d only been acquainted with Angela Carrick for a few brief moments, but she believed the willowy woman in ostrich feathers, with her wavy blond hair and those long thin fingers that seemed made to play a piano, was the mastermind behind the Carrick house. If that were so, why did the nervous woman seem out of place in an environment that must once have suited her so perfectly?

“Mama, I’m hungry.”

Deep in thought, Molly hadn’t realized that Sam had shut off the television. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Goodness. It’s nearly seven o’clock. You must be starved.” She went into the kitchen and examined the refrigerator where she’d put the few items she’d brought in a cooler from Prairie Bend. “We still have some sandwiches left. And chips and cookies. How does that sound?”

“I’m sick of sandwiches,” he said.

“Then we can go to the convenience store we passed when we drove out here. I can get a frozen pizza.”

“Okay.”

She grabbed her purse, bundled Sam into his jacket and headed for the door. Opening it, she nearly ran into a plump dark-haired Mexican woman on the threshold. She carried a platter covered with a checkered cloth, and whatever was under the napkin smelled spicy and hot and heavenly. Molly’s mouth watered. “Hi.”

“Hello,” the woman said. “Can I come in? I’m Serafina, Trevor Dobbs’s wife.”

Molly opened the door wider. “It’s nice to meet you, Serafina.”

“How do like this place?” Serafina asked as she took the platter to the kitchen.

“It’s lovely.”

“I’m having another bed brought up tomorrow,” she said. “It’s a folding one, but has a nice thick mattress. It will be good for the boy.”

“Thank you. That’s very thoughtful.”

She placed the platter on the table. Sam followed her as if she were the pied piper. “What’s under that napkin?” he asked.

Serafina smiled. “I thought you might be hungry, niño. I’ve brought you some supper.”

“How kind of you,” Molly said. “But we don’t want to be any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” Serafina assured her. “And it’s not much. During the week we eat simple food.” She removed the cloth, releasing deliciously scented steam, and pointed to the various offerings on the plate. “Some tacos, enchiladas, beans, corn. It should be enough for you and the boy.”

Molly didn’t need to ask, but she said, “What do you think, Sam? Does it look good?”

“It looks great.” He began rooting through drawers. “Where are the forks?” When he found them, he sat at the table and waited for Molly to bring him the last of the milk from the nearly empty refrigerator.

“Thank you so much, Serafina,” Molly said. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I just saw your supplies in that ice box,” she said. “You come to the main house in the morning and get whatever you need.” She frowned at the refrigerator. “I will take you shopping tomorrow.”

“I’d like that.”

“If you need me, we live in the smaller house just to the west. You come get me.”

Molly walked her to the door. Serafina stopped before going out. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Mr. Brady told me to tell you he would be up later for your first lesson.” She shook her head. “Poker, is it?”

Not knowing what this woman knew of her arrangement with Brady or, if she did, whether or not she approved of it, Molly hesitated before answering, “Yes, it’s poker.”

Serafina waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “I guess Brady knows poker. At least that’s what they all say—Trevor and those friends of his. But I told him you must be tired and he should let you settle in tonight.”

Serafina was frowning because she was concerned about Molly’s welfare? Having grown up with criticism as part of her everyday life, Molly laughed with relief. “It’s okay. I’m always up late. Tell him to come.”

Serafina started down the stairs. “Go. Eat. You’re too skinny. And tell Brady to leave when you tire of him. He could play poker all night.”

Molly shut the door and leaned against it. Just a few minutes ago, she’d been as hungry as Sam. Now, her appetite seemed to have fled.

“This is what you want, Molly,” she said, anticipating the satisfaction of soaking up every bit of knowledge Brady had to give her. A big payoff. And revenge. She was glad she’d come to River Bluff. Brady would teach her all the tricks he’d used to humiliate Kevin, only she’d be the winner this time. She imagined Brady’s face when she finally revealed her identity to him. In the back of her mind, she could almost see Kevin grinning.

MOLLY ONLY NIBBLED at the food Serafina brought. When she’d cleaned up the dishes, she showered, tamed her hair into a loose style that fell around her shoulders and slipped into comfortable running pants and a sweatshirt. A thermometer outside the door of the apartment read forty-two degrees, uncharacteristically cool for south central Texas, even in the winter.

She tucked Sam into bed at eight-thirty and sat on the sofa to find something entertaining on television. She was staring at a reality show when her halfhearted concentration was broken by a knock at the door. The knowledge that Brady was supposed to begin her lessons had never really left her mind and she jumped up from the sofa. Her hand on the knob, she gave herself a quick pep talk. “Calm down, Molly. This is a business arrangement, an opportunity for both of you to get what you want. Don’t blow it.”

She opened the door. Brady stood on her small landing, two bottles of beer dangling between his fingers. He wore jeans, sneakers and a flannel shirt under a black leather jacket. His damp hair glistened, and he smelled faintly of pine and something subtly spicy. “Is this a bad time?” he asked.

She stood back. “No. Come in.”

He strode to the middle of the room, set the beer on the coffee table and pulled out a deck of cards. “Accommodations okay?”

“Fine.”

“I figured we might as well get started.”

“Sure.”

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