Love Brought by Fate – Extended Epilogue

Five Years Later

“Huh. Strange name for a town. Port Jessup. Not a port in sight, nor a place to put a port.”

Gwen, in the process of removing her simple white hat and her somewhat dusty black boots, paid little attention to her husband’s grousing. By now, with all the towns and small cities to which they’d traveled, she had grown to expect his good-natured complaints.

“Adam, I don’t really care about the name, as long as we have a bathtub with water in it. I declare, I’ve eaten five pounds of grit on this trip, and I’m wearing another ten pounds of it in my clothing. I just want to soak, eat, and fall into bed.”

He looked disappointed. “You that tired, sweetheart?”

“Well, face it, dear. That buckboard doesn’t do a whole lot for anyone wanting to travel in comfort. Perhaps we can climb on board a nice luxurious train next time? I understand they’re doing marvelous things on rails these days.”

He was close enough to give her an affectionate swat on the posterior. “Maybe we just won’t go so far any more, darlin’. We’re gettin’ the ranch built up the way we want, and we have our gamblin’ getaways when the itch hits. Think it might be about time to start workin’ on that family you keep talkin’ about’?”

Turning so he could undo the buttons running up the back of her shirtwaist, she shrugged with the mock offhandedness that she knew drove him crazy. “Well, I should like to get my bath first before you decide to practice again, if you can contain your ardor for a bit.”

Adam bent down to nuzzle the nape of her neck, all the while fondling parts to which the marriage license now allowed him free rein. Any time. Any place.

“I’ll be just as patient as can be. For another twenty minutes or so. Then you, Mrs. Hardy, are all mine.”

Their five years together had seen a slow, steady increase in assets and prosperity. Gradually the house had been remodeled and refurbished, with fresh paint or paper on the walls, pine floors sanded and polished, windows repaired and basic maintenance employed, and new pieces of furniture added to replace the old worn-out stuff. Gwen had discovered a real talent for decorating, and all the rooms of the Chokecherry residence proved a testament to comfort, color, and design.

Now that their surroundings were more conducive to receiving company, entertaining had become a passion. Her family often came to visit, invited for dinner, and occasionally staying for supper. Financial strains had eased for the Smiths, and they were certainly living a slower and more secure lifestyle. Especially since Eddie had gotten himself a fulfilling job at the Viridian Express, with a substantial raise in salary. He was keeping company with a girl from town—a cheerful, buxom blonde named Henrietta Olson—and looking toward marriage in the near future.

Victor and Silvia Jensen, from the VeeJee Ranch five miles away, also stopped in, along with their brood of three active children, and sometimes all of her family, as well. Gwen hadn’t needed to make any tactful suggestion to the senior Contessas about her best friend’s wedding date. The parents had read the signs aright and wisely switched gears. From a time originally set at least two years into the future, the wedding had been moved up to only three months.

A very wise course, indeed, seeing that Silvia had proven to be so fertile, so soon.

She was happy spending time with her friend. She was happy running her household with a skill and talent inherited from her mama. She was happiest bossing around the whole kit and caboodle of everyone on the ranch. That included husband and offspring.

Gwen now oversaw the provender of a large kitchen garden, along with a spacious hen house and yard, an orchard of trees that would probably be producing fruit in another few years, and two milk cows in a nearby pasture. And, of course, there was Cody, an integral part of the family. If he wasn’t outside following in Adam’s footsteps, he was outside and inside following in Gwen’s.

Three more cattle auctions had been announced during that period of time, which meant that Adam could add substantially to his growing herd of cows and a much smaller one of horses. With the extras of a barn and a roomy bunkhouse, he had hired a young man to serve as foreman. Both he and Jacob Turner had laughed over the title.

“Foreman of what?” Jake had wanted to know, looking around for invisible employees.

“Well—about two thousand acres at the moment. And all the fresh vegetables you can eat.”

Adam had decided that having an extra employee on the place would be a good idea, since he and Gwen traveled often enough to feel uncomfortable leaving no one to keep an eye on the place during their absence. He e always refused to go anywhere without his wife, taking her along for company. Depending on the objective and the location, they might use the buckboard, with camping supplies included. Or the surrey. Of even ride horseback.

Today’s journey had brought them across the border into Utah Territory, to the town of Port Jessup.

This afternoon would see them at the cattle auction.

Tonight would see them visiting one or two of the more decent gambling houses.

As promised, honesty had prevailed during their several discussions about this pursuit. Both decided that, as satisfying as it was to manage their own ranch and enjoy the improvements thereon, they also loved the excitement of sitting down to a table for games of chance. One never knew how the cards might fall. A good night, or a bad one? Winnings to take home, or losses to be reconciled?

The uncertainty was all part of the adventure.

Not that their lives together were all honey and sunflowers. No such thing.

With two such strong, independent personalities, clashes were bound to come along once in a while. Arguments might spring up over the smallest, silliest things—as both would admit once the storm clouds had blown away to leave blue skies again.

Once, during one of their more memorable upsets (over what, neither could now recall), Gwen had actually thrown a cup at her husband’s head.

Luckily, the cup was empty. Also, luckily, the cup was made of tin.

No damage done.

Another time, during another tempest in a teapot, Adam had actually turned her over his knee, skirts flying, to land a couple of clouts upon her squirming backside.

Not exactly the best recommended course to settle any disagreement.

Somehow, though, the procedure seemed to work for them. No beatings were ever involved, nor any physical abuse, nor certainly any actual harm inflicted. The raucous byplay seemed more a prelude for the erotic encounter afterward.

Although Adam did occasionally and plaintively (not to mention falsely) assert, to anyone who might listen, that his wife’s rarely roused temper had laid him out flat once in a while, due to the crack of a sad iron or even a broom handle, upon which she had used to fly down and mete out her punishment.

At such preposterous claims, Gwen would just roll her magnificent eyes, ruffle the head of dark hair with its threads of silver, and soundly smack him. With a kiss.

Their union had begun with two disparate human beings trying to make sense of the harem-scarem way they’d taken to achieve a mutual goal. Within a short time, with initial difficulties smoothed out, both had proven to be compassionate, passionate individuals forming a good, sound, solid marriage.

Neither would change what they had for a second.

Most watching the couple felt a twinge of envy.

Later that day, lying abed in a welter of twisted sheets, Gwen stretched with a very luxury of languorous muscles.

“Oh, Adam, my love,” she murmured. “I shall never grow tired of this.”

He shifted to wrap one arm around her shoulders, pulling her against a very powerful chest still cooling in the aftermath.

“Of my expertise, darlin’?” he asked smugly.

“That? Oh, no. I meant the richness of occupying a hotel suite.” She giggled.

“You minx.” Torn between applying a light little swat and a kiss, he chose the latter. Deeply and completely, so that, when he finally released her, she let out a full-body sigh.

“I must confess something, Adam.”

“Ahuh.” The answer came absently, from a man more interested in pursuing other venues of all the pleasures still being offered. “Whazzat?”

“I adore the fact that you have such a hairy chest. It’s like cuddling up to a black bear. Now, go away. You’ve worn me out.”

“Wait a minute. Why should I haveta—”

She gave him a shove. “You have an auction to attend, remember?”

“Well, sure. Ain’t you comin’ along?” He looked stricken.

“No, this one time, I most assuredly am not. I plan to sleep. Besides,” Pulling the bedclothes in place to cover the temptations he was once again exploring, she gave him a provocative smile, “you might want to save some of that energy for—later…”

*  *  *  *  *

“Well, now, ain’t you about the purtiest thing in shoe leather I’ve ever seen?”

One elegant shoulder, bared to the world and all its occupants, lifted slightly. “I should certainly hope so. I work at it.”

An admiring glance that glided like quicksilver from top to toe and back. “I’d tell everybody you’ve made a success. You here alone, ma’am?”

“Why, pray tell, do you ask, sir?”

Domino was, as usual, arrayed for the evening in her most alluring outfit, low-cut and tightly bound. Not purple, for a change, but stark black satin, ornamented with glittering beads and sequins scattered about in all the right places. A bejeweled black mask concealed most of her face; an elaborate black hat, tricked out in silk roses, concealed most of her upswept hair.

Word had spread in gambling halls throughout the southwest of this ravishing woman whose identity was kept a closely guarded secret, and of her talent at the tables. Some would-be amateurs avoided her like the Great Pestilence of medieval fame. Others, however, longed to challenge her expertise. Like gunslingers determined to prove themselves quickest on the draw against their more celebrated counterparts.

The lady was already attracting a crowd, if not for her reputation, then for her stunning appearance.

Who could resist sitting across from this femme fatale? Or even losing his stakes to her?

Any woman entering such a purely masculine setup as a gambling hall (other than a few bar girls, and those plying other wares) was a rarity.

But to have this amazing beauty grace such a disreputable locality with her presence was beyond belief.

She had entered The Golden Nugget on the arm of a tall, burly man who had, after a few dedicated minutes of studying the environs, deposited her at what was considered the best poker layout in the house. Then stood back while players jostled for position to join her.

The fellow who had made the overtures to her, having been already seated, rose politely at her entrance, and conversed casually while everyone was getting settled. He, himself, was attracting his own bit of notice. Some from other participants, with speculation; a lot from the few females, who eyed his splendid black-clad form, from head to toe, with a great deal of interest. And longing.

A gentleman, was the combined feminine consensus, especially wearing a waistcoat decked out in glitter and glamour.

He spoke now, to the newcomer, to ask the age-old question: did she came here often?

“Actually, this is my first time at the Nugget,” she replied coolly. The response was accompanied by a stripping off of her elbow-length black gloves, finger by finger, with unhurried movements that had every man’s tongue hanging out of his head.

“Ah.” The stranger was smoking a cigarillo with movements almost as leisurely and suggestive as her own. “Might be why I didn’t recognize you. Married?”

She gave him a slight smile. “Are you asking or declaring, sir?”

His grin might be compared to a wolf’s baring of white fangs. “Whichever works best for you, ma’am.”

“Then shall we just leave that answer on the knees of the gods?”

“Sure enough. You got a name?”

An uplifted glance from long-lashed green eyes. “You may call me Domino. And you?”

“Oh, my name ain’t nearly so colorful. It’s Hardy, ma’am, and you may call me Adam once we get to know each other better.”

Her black brocaded reticule lay on the table near her elbow, along with a painted black wooden fan, folded to its smallest size. “All of us can enjoy our pipe dreams, Mr. Hardy. Even you.”

Tapping ash into a glass dish, he leaned forward as if to make his point more easily. “Knowin’ you better ain’t a dream, ma’am. It’s a dead sure fact. Wherever you’re stayin’ in town, I plan to take you there, afterward. And I can lay bets right now, with anybody at this table, that I’ll be spendin’ the night in your bed.”

A gasp came from one of the players watching this interaction with awe. Two others hastily shifted position, so as not to miss a single word. This was far more lewd talk and behavior toward a lady—frequenter of gambling halls or not—than they could have ever expected to witness, and they were dying to hear more. The youngest man, one who looked hardly old enough to grow a beard, grimaced. Apparently he was already prepared to take offense on the gentlewoman’s behalf.

The gentlewoman, however, merely smiled that frosty smile that could chill a fellow’s blood to the marrow and gave her pursuer a challenging, up-chinned look. “Indeed? A side wager, then; that’s what you’re suggesting?”

“Yup.”

She glanced around the table. Four seats were already taken by players anxious to participate; other players stood around, waiting in the wings for a chance to sit in. This was like some theatre drama, whose only admission cost was a pile of chips in varying denominations; and a small crowd had already gathered to observe.

Beneath the mask, her green eyes flashed. “I shall leave it up to you, kind sirs. Shall I engage in this—farce? Shall you?”

A little ripple of laughter ensued, then voices ringing out in agreement to put up cash. One individual quietly applauded the whole affair.

“Very well. And do we trust this—this stranger, this individual who has just made a most indelicate proposition to me—to hold our money for us?”

Another babble of conversation. Oh, did she know how to play the room! Domino held every one of these fascinated fellows in the palm of her hand; and Mr. Hardy, watching with a small perceptive half-smile of his own, was well aware of her talent.

Turning suddenly, she beckoned to the man standing nearby, that he might approach.

“This is Mr. Lewis. He works at the hotel, and he very nicely accepted my request that he escort me here tonight, that my—my personal safety, and my virtue—would be assured. Shall we ask him to keep track of our stakes? Yes?”

All loudly agreed that was a most satisfactory recommendation; it would be just fine.

And then they started peeling off greenbacks. Two to one. Five to one. And so on. The odds were mostly in favor that the proposed assignation would take place. Probably because so many had noticed the determined, speculative expression on this Hardy person’s face.

If he came knocking at some glitzy gal’s door, who could refuse him?

Finished with that particular part of the evening’s business, Domino picked up the brand-new deck of cards, shuffled and began to deal. “Gentlemen, kindly place your bets.”

The game began, the hands passed round and round, and the winnings began to trickle in. Or out. After an hour or so, as this defeated player slunk away or that hopeful player joined in, Domino had collected a nice pile of chips beside her fan, and Mr. Hardy equally so.

Time for a break. Time to refresh drinks or relieve functions. Time for the couple remaining at their table, while the interested throng still milled around, to continue the effortless conversation whose every word held a double meaning.

“Bought me some cattle today,” Mr. Hardy ventured. He had traded his cigarillo for a small glass of his favorite bourbon, and studied his adversary over its rim.

“Did you?” Apparently little interest there. The lady was sorting through her winnings, stacking like to like, murmuring something unintelligible.

“Yup. Success all the way. Bought twenty head. Easy enough to trail back home.”

Gracefully, her elbow atop the table, she propped her chin into the palm of one hand. “And where might that be?”

“A nice little ranch across the border, down Viridian way. You’d oughta come see it.”

“Why should I want to, pray tell?”

The hazel of his eyes had deepened into a tawny color, neither blue nor brown, that bespoke a certain mood. A certain leaning.

“Oh, Miss Domino, I could show you a real good time there, too,” he purred.

“Too?”

“Ahuh. After I pass muster later tonight. Y’ know, that rendezvous thing we got goin’? Really lookin’ forward to that.” Complacent, he leaned back in his chair, folded both hands together over a taut middle, and smiled with utmost charm. “M’h’m. A good cigar, a nice glass of bubbly spirits, and you, Miss Domino. You.”

A titter passed around through those immediately gathered nearby.

Domino, more now a woman of the world, no longer blushed so easily. “I’m afraid you shall be disappointed, Mr. Hardy. The door to my hotel room will be locked, as soon as I’m inside. You may be winning numerous hands at poker, but you haven’t a chance of winning with me.”

More reaction from the crowd. A few sought out Mr. Lewis to see if it was too late to change the nature and amount of their bets.

Mr. Hardy still smiled. “Well, then, how you gonna let these good folks know what the outcome is? Gotta have a way for ’em to get their money back.”

“Hmmm. Let me think.” She was seized by inspiration. “Here’s the answer. I’m staying at the Hotel Montclair. Tomorrow morning, should my decision prevail—as I’m positive it will—my window and its shade shall remain closed. Should you, by the most remote chance, somehow become—lucky—you may drape my nightgown out the open window. Fair enough?”

He glanced around at those waiting, almost breathlessly. “What d’ you think, boys?”

A cheer went up, and a lot of babble followed.

“And after you see that pretty piece of lingerie a-flappin’ in the breeze, you can all hit up Mr. Lewis at the front desk,” said Mr. Hardy, grinning hugely.  “Collect your winning’s, and then thank me!”

Domino gave him a narrow look.

“Don’t count your chickens,” she advised. “Gentlemen, who’s in? I’m going to deal.”

*  *  *  *  *

Not surprisingly, next day, when a small horde of antsy males had been gathered outside the hotel for several hours, a third-story window shade rolled up, its window opened, and a parasol emerged. Tied to its very tip dangled a lacy red spangled camisole.

Noises of approval, loud whistles, and jolts of laughter echoed up and down the street.

Adam actually had the temerity to stand up before the glass and take an elaborate bow.

Nekkid as a jaybird.

Much, much later, the pair happily loaded up, collected their herd of cattle, and headed home.

Gwen, dressed in a simple straw hat, plain ivory-colored shirtwaist, and rather ugly brown skirt, attracted no attention whatsoever.

Just the way she liked it.

The return trip was uneventful, just the way Adam liked it. They could chuckle over the previous evening’s enjoyable pursuits, discuss their sizable winnings, and talk about those babies that Gwen was going to start producing one of these days.

They had arrived at the Chokecherry and gotten the cattle settled into their new digs when Victor appeared on horseback. He was just wanting, he told them, to make sure they’d gotten back okay and that there were no problems.

“C’mon in, have some coffee,” Adam invited. “We’ll tell you all about it.”

“Oh, I’m happy to do that, but I gotta tell you some news of my own, first.”

Gwen, who was gathering up some of her things from the back of the buckboard, paused. “You don’t mean that Silvia is expecting again!”

He gave a somewhat shamefaced burst of laughter. “No, ma’am. We’re layin’ off that for a while. Three in five years is way plenty. Them kids try my patience to the ends of the earth. Why, the other day—”

“Your news?” Adam brought his friend back to the subject at hand.

“Oh, yeah.” The three started toward the back door, where refreshments awaited. “You ain’t gonna believe this.”

“Gotta hear it, first.”

Right in the middle of the porch, Victor stopped. “Didn’tcha always kinds wonder who owned the Purple Parrot?”

Having already proceeded into the kitchen to pour fresh water into the coffee pot, Gwen turned. “I certainly did. But no one knew.”

“And didn’tcha kinda wonder how’s come you always got such special treatment there, Gwen? Bein’ catered to, and looked after. Coddled, most of the time.”

“Why, yes, but I assumed it was because I was a woman, and unusual enough to draw gamblers inside.”

Adam, blocked from entering by Victor’s bulk, sighed. “Can you just get to the point, Bumble?”

“Sure.” His friend grinned. “Owner is the Falkenberg Corporation.”

“Yeah? So?”

“Last name of a certain pair of twins you was chummy with, Guinevere.”

Her jaw dropped. She nearly dropped the coffeepot, as well. “You mean Jorik? Jarmo?”

“The very same.”

Totally taken aback, she sank into a chair. “You’re not serious. Tell me you’re not serious. My bodyguards, whom I ordered around as if they were my servants?”

“Well, yeah. That’s the way they wanted it. They’ve had that place for ten years or more.”

“I’ll be switched,” was all Adam could say. He joined his wife at the table, utterly kerflummoxed. “How’dja find that out?”

“Oh, somebody in the tax assessor’s office finally spilled the beans. Reckon they raised the amount due, and the twins pitched a fit, and it got to be public knowledge, so…”

Gwen was beginning to recover from her shock. Or surprise. Or astonishment. “Adam! You know what this means?”

He groaned. “Nope., but I’ll bet you’re gonna tell me.”

“We can go gambling at the Parrot much more often now. Imagine what fun we’ll have!  I’ll still be Domino, the masked lady. But you can be a—a pirate. Or a prospector. Or—oh, I know, some know-it-all city slicker. We’ll fix up a costume for you, too, depending on how you want to appear, and we can—”

“Lordy, Lordy. I can see I’ve created a monster.”

“Whilst you’re makin’ all these plans,” intervened Victor, on a plaintive note, “think you might get that coffee goin’? I’m awful thirsty, and I still gotta go home and face them little hellions takin’ over my hearth and home.”

THE END

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