Excerpt: Winner Takes All
Because I'm too lazy to do more, and because the full short will go on sale in June at Dreamspinner in their Daily Dose Anthology First Time For Everything, here is a bit from my contribution. I went Old West on that bitch, just because. What you need to know, there's a lonely town marshal and a cheeky monkey gambler and they want want want what you want want want. (Okay, too much Rihanna for me today. And coffee.) I mean to say, there is much wanting and denial of wanting going on.
In truth, there wasn't much difference between his room here and his room there; both were small and sparsely furnished, decorated only by his other pair of boots and his considerable gun collection. A married man might have needed more room, but Mary Ellen, bless her wise heart, had run off years before he'd ever come to this border town and he had no inclination to remarry, for reasons he never thought about anymore.
At least, not much. Not unless he couldn't help it. Like when the nights were long and when he was tired from days of worry and waiting to pass off a prisoner to the Federal Marshal, and whenever a certain inveterate tinhorn poker player rode into town—or rode in on the stage as though he'd finally lost his horse over some cards.
The very fact that that tinhorn was currently boarding at the Glory, as he always seemed to when he rode into town on the black mare he claimed to love, covered in dust and a shadow of a beard, meant Morgan was eying his little jail as his new home, and would be as long as that two-bit gambler and probable cheat was in town. He'd never get a wink of sleep otherwise, and he needed that.
Of course, if he went to sleep, he wouldn't have to hear the laughter trickling down the street from the hotel's tables, where Matt Dixon would be cleaning out billfolds and telling those damn tall tales and stories about his father to make people laugh while he took their money.
Those stories had a touch of magic in them for all that they were lies. Or were probably lies, or lies with a grain or two of truth in them, but so fanciful and well-told that anyone could fall for them. Dixon's tales could take you someplace else, to made up towns, to meet people who likely didn't exist, and in them, always, always, Dixon himself as a long-lost prince, or the savior of an entire island during a storm, or as the only winner in six hands of stud against Hickok himself.
That one might be true, even if the kid sometimes hardly seemed old enough with his flashy suits and coppery hair. Other times Dixon seemed exactly old enough, or older, his gaze entirely too jaded for the heartbeat before he'd recall himself and smile and begin to spin another yarn about San Francisco's Emperor or how he'd once served a glass of whiskey to a Russian princess who'd swallowed it without flinching and asked for more.
It was no wonder the man was so loved, even if he was a card player. It was possibly one reason the man hadn't been killed yet. Dixon sat down to play with people who couldn't read, who had scars from the whips of overzealous bosses, or who had never been to towns much bigger than this one, and maybe that was how the man seemed like a gift to them, an actor and magician combined, one hand always over your heart as the other reached for your billfold.
It was hardly a surprise that some didn't even notice that he was taking their hard-earned wages as he spoke; they only smiled and waited until he offered up another story.
Morgan clenched his jaw, hard, and moved, but only to flip the lock on the door to keep out any unwanted visitors. He knew exactly how difficult the life of those cowhands was, what it took to survive it, or get away, and yet somehow, like them he wanted the tales anyway.
Not for the first time he wondered if Dixon knew that too, if he also had first-hand knowledge of all those moments from his youth both great and sickening, if he'd slept under the stars with his best friends, and done things to be ashamed of when he'd had no other choice. If he did and he smiled and stared so warmly and sweetly and took those boys' money anyway, he was no good at heart and Morgan was right in driving him from town whenever he rode in. Someone had to look out for those who couldn't protect themselves, even from cheating, reckless gamblers.
Though there were always those who didn't laugh at Dixon's stories, the ones who did charge him with cheating, not that Morgan or anyone else had ever made a charge stick. The man played stud like he was one of the creatures from the Old Country Morgan's mother had warned him about, and if anyone on this earth was charmed, it would be Dixon, with his green eyes and his looks that had saloon girls and church ladies falling over themselves, and his never-ending streak of luck with cards.
"Gamblers..." Morgan snorted to himself as he lowered the blinds on the small window, shutting himself in with the flickering low light of one oil lamp. He was talking to himself, going as crazy as Miss Lettie one quiet night at a time, but he didn't stop himself. Out there it wouldn't do to admit weakness, one wrong step, one careless move could lead to tragedy, but in here he was alone at last, almost close to free.
There was no light coming in from the street with the blind down, though he could still hear murmurs from the hotel.
"One step above criminals." He tried to say it with force, but the sound of laughter seemed to linger, like imaginary bathhouse scents that still tickled his nose.
"Now, Marshal," someone declared in an unabashedly intimate tone that made heat rise up in Morgan's belly, "a man could take that real personal."
In truth, there wasn't much difference between his room here and his room there; both were small and sparsely furnished, decorated only by his other pair of boots and his considerable gun collection. A married man might have needed more room, but Mary Ellen, bless her wise heart, had run off years before he'd ever come to this border town and he had no inclination to remarry, for reasons he never thought about anymore.
At least, not much. Not unless he couldn't help it. Like when the nights were long and when he was tired from days of worry and waiting to pass off a prisoner to the Federal Marshal, and whenever a certain inveterate tinhorn poker player rode into town—or rode in on the stage as though he'd finally lost his horse over some cards.
The very fact that that tinhorn was currently boarding at the Glory, as he always seemed to when he rode into town on the black mare he claimed to love, covered in dust and a shadow of a beard, meant Morgan was eying his little jail as his new home, and would be as long as that two-bit gambler and probable cheat was in town. He'd never get a wink of sleep otherwise, and he needed that.
Of course, if he went to sleep, he wouldn't have to hear the laughter trickling down the street from the hotel's tables, where Matt Dixon would be cleaning out billfolds and telling those damn tall tales and stories about his father to make people laugh while he took their money.
Those stories had a touch of magic in them for all that they were lies. Or were probably lies, or lies with a grain or two of truth in them, but so fanciful and well-told that anyone could fall for them. Dixon's tales could take you someplace else, to made up towns, to meet people who likely didn't exist, and in them, always, always, Dixon himself as a long-lost prince, or the savior of an entire island during a storm, or as the only winner in six hands of stud against Hickok himself.
That one might be true, even if the kid sometimes hardly seemed old enough with his flashy suits and coppery hair. Other times Dixon seemed exactly old enough, or older, his gaze entirely too jaded for the heartbeat before he'd recall himself and smile and begin to spin another yarn about San Francisco's Emperor or how he'd once served a glass of whiskey to a Russian princess who'd swallowed it without flinching and asked for more.
It was no wonder the man was so loved, even if he was a card player. It was possibly one reason the man hadn't been killed yet. Dixon sat down to play with people who couldn't read, who had scars from the whips of overzealous bosses, or who had never been to towns much bigger than this one, and maybe that was how the man seemed like a gift to them, an actor and magician combined, one hand always over your heart as the other reached for your billfold.
It was hardly a surprise that some didn't even notice that he was taking their hard-earned wages as he spoke; they only smiled and waited until he offered up another story.
Morgan clenched his jaw, hard, and moved, but only to flip the lock on the door to keep out any unwanted visitors. He knew exactly how difficult the life of those cowhands was, what it took to survive it, or get away, and yet somehow, like them he wanted the tales anyway.
Not for the first time he wondered if Dixon knew that too, if he also had first-hand knowledge of all those moments from his youth both great and sickening, if he'd slept under the stars with his best friends, and done things to be ashamed of when he'd had no other choice. If he did and he smiled and stared so warmly and sweetly and took those boys' money anyway, he was no good at heart and Morgan was right in driving him from town whenever he rode in. Someone had to look out for those who couldn't protect themselves, even from cheating, reckless gamblers.
Though there were always those who didn't laugh at Dixon's stories, the ones who did charge him with cheating, not that Morgan or anyone else had ever made a charge stick. The man played stud like he was one of the creatures from the Old Country Morgan's mother had warned him about, and if anyone on this earth was charmed, it would be Dixon, with his green eyes and his looks that had saloon girls and church ladies falling over themselves, and his never-ending streak of luck with cards.
"Gamblers..." Morgan snorted to himself as he lowered the blinds on the small window, shutting himself in with the flickering low light of one oil lamp. He was talking to himself, going as crazy as Miss Lettie one quiet night at a time, but he didn't stop himself. Out there it wouldn't do to admit weakness, one wrong step, one careless move could lead to tragedy, but in here he was alone at last, almost close to free.
There was no light coming in from the street with the blind down, though he could still hear murmurs from the hotel.
"One step above criminals." He tried to say it with force, but the sound of laughter seemed to linger, like imaginary bathhouse scents that still tickled his nose.
"Now, Marshal," someone declared in an unabashedly intimate tone that made heat rise up in Morgan's belly, "a man could take that real personal."
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