Love Brought by Fate (Preview)

Chapter One

“Face it, Adam. You’re no more’n a rollin’ stone. And you know what the problem is with that?”

“Yep. Gathers no moss, from what I’ve heard. And why would I wanna gather moss anyway? Think I’m some ole hardcore snappin’ turtle, green to the gills?”

“You just might,” came words edged with annoyance, “take somethin’ serious once in a while.”

“Ain’t nothin’ in life that serious, son. We, none of us, get outta this alive; may as well enjoy every minute we can, don’tcha think?”

Victor wasn’t so sure. Life was serious, in his opinion, and it would come to no good having his friend take things so lightly. He had often told him just that. Fortitude and stoic endurance for the long haul, absolutely, butut facing any particular problem with the cheerful, automatic smile of a simpleton?

Victor’s ambition and knowledge could only impress all those with whom he came in contact.

Impress, definitely, but, also, cause envy, and possibly just a whiff of jealousy as well.

Which could have been the case for his best friend, Adam Hardy, were Adam not so laid-back and easy-going about life in general. That was the gist of today’s discussion, on the cozy front porch that held several twig chairs, a couple pairs of old boots in one corner, and bits of clutter in the other. Victor might have put thought and care into the design of his home, but he was still a young man prone to keeping things only as neat as necessary. Also, with having no woman on the premises, he found neatness a factor not very necessary at all.

Nor did it concern Adam Hardy, who was used to fending for himself and making do with whatever. Although he much preferred taking his comforts as he could, he could easily survive just about any inconvenience, whether camping out in the wilds, or traveling through inclement conditions.

Mild-mannered he might be, but his big frame carried with it the very slightest whiff of toughness; of undeniable menace in case the situation might warrant. While he could joke about running like a rabbit if someone raised a fist to him, he had infrequently had to stay his ground and fight.

He didn’t like it. He didn’t go out of his way to seek some sort of physical confrontation when things got sticky, but neither did he turn tail and flee. Actually, for sheer size, he was usually left strictly alone. Why mess with someone who stood a hefty six inches above the average?

Adam was a handsome fellow, as proven by his success with the ladies wherever he happened to be. He was in his mid-thirties, with thick, curly brown hair that ignored any attempt at taming with comb or brush; eyes an interesting shade called hazel that incorporated brown or green or gold, depending upon mood; a usually clean-shaven face claiming a deep dimple in each cheek; as well as  a jaw line that could be firm or, rarely, belligerent.

Good-looking though he was, the greater charm was his affable humor and easy manner, as if the world turned at his express pleasure, and he enjoyed seeing it do so.

The sun was setting on this pleasant late afternoon in mid-May, and shadows were lengthening across the hummocky front yard. Adam had arrived not long ago from his travels west into southern California, back east across the tip of Nevada State, north into Utah Territory, and south again to the VeeJay. A giant oval stretch, by this rolling stone, that circled back to friendlier skies.

Victor’s invitation to visit any time was generously open-ended, and Adam had taken advantage of the offer a number of times during the past ten years. The two had grown up together in the community of Viridian and held similar interests. However, while Victor had been content to remain grounded in familiar surroundings,  Adam had wanted to see the world.

Unfortunately, as Victor had complained on a number of occasions, for his friend, seeing the world usually meant the best seat at a high-stakes poker game. Adam’s view of scenery came through the open window or batwing doors of whichever gambling hall he happened to be holding court.

The VeeJay Ranch, located some ten miles outside the thriving town of Viridian, Arizona Territory, had been built up by its owner from a rundown piece of property to a respectable business. Victor Jensen, with hospitality to be counted on as large and legendary, was an affable tow-headed enterpriser in his early thirties whose dark blue eyes looked out upon the world as an obstacle to be bested. And best it he had. At least, so far, given the VeeJay’s stunning success, growth, responsibility, and a herd of good fat cattle.

Aided by an inheritance from well-to-do parents, Victor had, in the early days, purchased ten thousand acres of sweet prime woodland in the north central area of the Territory, near what would eventually be designated the Kaibab National Forest. After a few years of increasing stability and prosperity, he had added another twenty thousand to his holdings.

With the hiring of several cowpunchers to aid in running the place, he had built himself a substantial log house in which to put down roots. Having accomplished so much in so relatively short a time, he had grown from a skinny, lackluster kid, bullied during his youth by blustering school mates, to a man whose air of well-being and good fortune suited him perfectly.

Now, twisting free the wire of a Lightning stopper from the neck of his bottle of beer, Victor took an appreciative sip and surveyed his visitor with curiosity. “Ain’t you ever gonna settle down, boy?”

“Got no reason to. Why?” The look of curiosity was returned. “This life might be fine for you, Vic, but I still got places to see and things to do.”

“Things to do bein’ games of chance,” Victor scoffed. “And that’s how you make your livin’, huh?”

“Well, it’s worked so far. I ain’t been shot dead for cheatin’, and no jealous husband has chased me outta town because of flirtin’ with his wife. I get along. But I must admit, my friend, sittin’ here like this is pleasant. Mighty doggoned pleasant.”

“Especially when I supply your drinkin’ supplies.”

“Well, sure, there is that.” Adam, slouched back in his chair with one ankle resting on the other thigh, indulged in a lazy grin. “Although, if I might say without hurtin’ your feelin’s none, I am partial to good Southern bourbon.”

“Huh. Now that’s just downright picky. So. Whaddya think?”

“About what?”

Victor’s blue plaid flannel shirt lifted on a sigh of resignation. “Settlin’ down, you lunkhead.”

“Well, now, Bumble, reckon the idea has its appeal. Lemme think on it, and you g’wan tryin’ to persuade me whilst you fetch me another beer.”

Another sigh as his host rose to comply. From childhood, with a crown of hair whose color rivaled the sun—and then lightened—someone had given Victor the nickname of Bumblebee. That someone (now occupying space on this very front porch) had then shortened the word further. Victor had learned to live with it. To complain, as a rather unprepossessing boy during his foray into education, meant only more teasing, possibly with an even less flattering moniker.

As the late afternoon waned, the two men discussed the possibility of Adam’s buying a small ranch and a herd of cows and setting up shop. It could be, Victor insisted, a lucrative business, as witnessed by his own slow but steady expansion.

“George Hollister died a while back,” mused Victor, “at the age of eighty. Good long life. Had a place north a few miles—couple thousand acres, from what I’ve heard.”

“Yeah?” Adam’s ears almost visibly perked up.

“Left two daughters—both married. Nowhere in the area. So they’re wantin’ to sell the ranch. Think you might be interested?”

“Huh. It’s possible. I’d wanna see it first, o’ course.”

“Sure, that goes without sayin’. This would be a way for you to get started.”

Adam, suddenly assailed by doubts as to his own ability in such a new venture, remained silent as he turned over various aspects in his mind. For too many years he had survived by his wits. Using great skill at cards to gamble for high stakes—or even mediocre stakes—was just about all he knew; the poker table called him with a siren’s song, like the bottom of a bottle called others.

As the only child of a small farmer, he’d known hard work since he was old enough to begin milking the family cow, gathering eggs, mucking out the barn, digging and planting and harvesting the garden, and so on. Knee-high to a grasshopper, so the saying went. The labor hadn’t fazed him; he’d taken on every challenge, persevered, and succeeded.

But handling the responsibility for a whole ranch, with its possible myriad of problems, all on his own? Entirely different story. How much easier had it been, these many years, to be accountable to no one but Adam Rensalaer Hardy?

Truly a rolling stone.

“Gettin’ cold feet?” a grinning Victor wanted to know.

Thoughtful, Adam scrubbed at his chin. “I hate it when you read my mind.”

“Why, son, that’s easy enough. There ain’t enough up there in that head to block me.”

With narrowed eyes, Adam’s glance swerved from his friend to the empty bottle in his hand, and back to his friend again. Victor noticed, and this time took his mind-reading skills directly from Adam’s expression.

“Better not. I got me four good men just knockin’ off work for the day. One yell, and they’d be here in a heartbeat to pound you right off that chair and into the dust.”

Four against one were less than favorable odds. Reluctantly Adam reconsidered, then wisely changed the subject.

“Does one of them men happen to be a cook? I got one rib ticklin’ the other’n, and, man, I am ready to eat.”

“They take care of their own cookin’ out in the bunkhouse, and I take care of mine.”

Adam groaned. “Last time I stopped by, whatever you fixed tied my belly up in knots for a full day. I ain’t over fond of goin’ through that another time.”

“Oh, balderdash. You ain’t been here for three years. Think I haven’t improved since then?”

“I doubt it. The vittles you fixed were fit only to slop the hogs, and I figure even them persnickety animals mighta turned up their snouts at what you’d put in front of ’em.”

The twig chair creaked a little as Victor stood, stretched, and headed for the door. “Then you just c’mon in and watch me, Mr. Card Shark. I got things down to a science.”

Supper, to Adam’s surprise, was not only edible, but actually palatable.

Even more to his surprise, he was dragged into the preparation of it.

Russet potatoes (somewhat wrinkled from their winter’s hibernation in the root cellar), washed and thrown into the oven to bake alongside the pan of baking powder biscuits Victor whipped up; fresh greens, small and tender, from the garden; several good-sized steaks taken out of the ice house, pounded with flour until fork-tender and fried.

All of the concoctions were accompanied by a few more bottles of beer and a good deal of banter and laughter. Victor gave a good-natured squawk when his friend dropped raw dough on the floor; Adam emitted a snort of derision when his friend burnt instead of browned a pan of gravy made up of the entrée’s drippings.

At last they sat down at the plain pine table to eat.

Or, rather, to devour.

No ladies in the room to be shocked by their table manners. So both dived in, with knives and forks being busily applied. It wasn’t until their hunger had finally been slaked after two or three helpings that Adam sat back and took stock. He was actually a fastidious man, to whom, as a gambler always neatly arrayed in public, personal appearance loomed important.

So he applied the provided napkin, smiled like an angel, and asked about dessert.

“Huh. I’m doin’ pretty good at cookin’, you moocher, but I don’t bake. You’ll take canned peaches and like it.”

In quite an amicable domestic scene, the pair washed and dried their dishes and cleaned up the kitchen. Then they returned to the porch, dark now except for moonlight. They let themselves be distracted by a few persistently whining mosquitoes, and a whole drifting cloud of accommodating fireflies, all for the pleasure of a final cigarillo and plans for the morrow and beyond.

“So you got your dream job,” mused Adam, forming a masterful smoke ring to exhale into the air. “All your dominoes lined up in a row, and things are lookin’ pretty sweet. How soon you gonna get yourself a wife to help run things here? One that can make cakes and such?”

“I’m thinkin’ on that real serious, my friend, and I expect to have a look-see right soon. Makin’ cakes and such would be the least of the talents I would check on. You ain’t been back to Viridian yet, have you?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure since three years ago.”

Victor grinned. “Place has gotten real lively. Growin’ like a hog wallow, with just about everything you could ever ask for in life.”

“Yeah?” Adam, gratifyingly tired and soon ready to hike his weary bones off to bed in the spare room, raised a brow. “How many good folks they got livin’ inside their borders?”

“Near to seven thousand by now. Along with three newspapers, five banks, a main street lined with all kinds a businesses and department stores sellin’ the latest do-dads, two doctors, six lawyers, four hotels, a dozen or so crackerjack eatin’ places—want me to go on?”

“I figure you might as well. Ain’t hardly got to the best stuff yet.”

Chuckling, Victor tapped the ash off his cigarillo and resumed. “That bein’ any poker table set up for you to place a bet, I’ll warrant. Well, how’s about ninety-odd saloons and five brothels to go along hand in glove?”

“Better yet. Anybody keepin’ law and order in this rip-roarin’ community?”

“Sure enough. Got us a real holy-roller of a sheriff, keeps the lid tight on things most days. Him and his deputies—eight, I b’lieve, at last count—don’t let much get by.” Tipping his head back, he blew a fairly handsome ring of his own. At least the smoke helped to discourage persistent insects. “And the women…”

Ah. Here was a subject Adam could divine and discuss to his heart’s content. “Now, ole son, you got my attention. Go on.”

Victor yawned and shuffled his stockinged feet, released from boots for comfort. “Dunno. Runnin’ outta energy, after such a busy day. Reckon I’d better be headin’ off to bed right soon.”

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere just yet, even if I have to hogtie you to the chair. What about the women?”

Victor’s grin would have warmed the heart and soul of any recipient less impatient in that moment than Adam Hardy. “My friend, I swear this town has more beauteous women per capita than any other town in the States. I’ll take you along, in a day or two, so we can sample their wares.”

“Well, then. Reckon I’ll surely be interested in stickin’ around here for a while. Keepin’ company with the ladies, and checkin’ out that ranch you were tellin’ me about—and maybe fallin’ in to a few games of chance—why, I reckon to be right busy.”

“Busier’n you know, gamblin’ man. I plan to buy another small herd of cows myself and drive ’em down from over in Colorado. But first I gotta finish buildin’ a new fence, and you can help. That’ll get you used to runnin’ your own place, and it’ll help pay off the cost of your room and board.”

Chapter Two

“Oh, Eddie, dear. You’ve done what ?”

“He told you, Mama. He’s taken the savings we all put together over all these years and has squandered every penny in some fool get-rich-quick scheme. Just like always! And the only reason he’s telling you and me now is because Papa is still in the fields, so he’s breaking the bad news to us first to try out our reaction.”

Guinevere Smith could hardly be blamed for the anger and sarcasm in her voice as she paused in her pacing from kitchen door to sink and back again to glare at her brother. She might have been a Valkyrie—a warrior princess—with her unbound mane of red hair flying and her Irish green eyes flashing, ready to send this worthless (in her opinion) young man to a horrible death in battle. Any battle, just so his suffering was ensured.

“Oh, Gwen, I’m sure poor Eddie didn’t mean—”

“I’m sure he did. Didn’t you, dear brother? What was it this time—some grifter promised a hundred per cent return on our money?” Flipping her serviceable bronze-colored skirts out of the way, Gwen plopped down at the table as if exhausted by the whole argument.

“I’ve hardly—”

“Yes, you have. You always get sucked into some fly-by-night ploy, don’t you? Only this time you decided to put all of us in the poorhouse to do it! Go away from me, Eddie. I’m so angry at you right now I can hardly breathe!”

Showing a remarkable lack of concern for his misdeeds, Edward Smith was leaning indolently against the counter, arms folded in front of his chest and one ankle casually crossed over the other.

Even in his rough, workday farm clothing he presented a dashing figure—one who simply knew he was destined for greater things than mucking out barns or plodding along behind a plow. His auburn hair, much darker than his sister’s, was attractively mussed, and his fair complexion had reddened with the force of this furious confrontation and his subsequent embarrassment.

“I was told, on excellent authority, that my investment would be doubled within a year,” he said, lifting his chin with obvious truculence.

“And you believed this so-called authority? You, Edward, are a prize patsy if ever I saw one! Papa once mentioned having tucked away more than a thousand dollars in our family bank account. Did you leave anything at all?”

“Uh. Well. Maybe a—a few bucks.”

“Well, isn’t that just ducky!” Outraged, Gwen flung herself from her chair to begin pacing again. This time she grabbed a small scarf to tie her hair back out of the way while she clomped from one area to another. “Just how are we supposed to live until the crops can be sold this fall? Did you consider that, in all your grand dreams? Well? Did you?”

“Stop hammerin’ me!”

She stopped flat before him. In her mid-twenties, clearly built more on the fierce and fiery lines of a Boudicca than on the soft, gentle contours of a Saint Felicity, she was not about to back down from the belligerent stance she had taken.

“Be grateful for small favors, brother. I could be pounding you into the ground with my fists right now instead of using words. And don’t tell me you don’t deserve it! Only a few dollars left? That’s thievery, Eddie. You didn’t even have the gumption to ask any of us before you practically emptied our account. How did you intend to pay us back?”

He shrugged. “It was supposed to be outta the profit. A surprise.”

“A surprise!” she spat out.

“Oh, Eddie,” their frail mother whispered as the enormity of their situation began to sink in. Little Mrs. Marie Smith had never dealt easily or well with the blows of life, and this was just one more in a long series of them. “How could you do such a thing?”

Contrition washed over his expressive face. “Ma, I truly am sorry. It’s just that this sounded like a really good deal—”

“When a deal sounds too good to be true, it usually is,” Gwen sharply reminded him. “And the Equitable National Bank just allowed you to swoop in and steal all our money?”

“Steal? Consarn it, Gwen, stop makin’ things sound worse’n they are. I didn’t—”

“If that isn’t stealing, I don’t know what is!” The wrath had not abated but only heated up and intensified as she stormed away to pour a cup of breakfast coffee with shaky fingers. “Just when exactly did you do this foul deed?”

Eddie flushed and shifted position. “Six months ago. Just b’fore Christmas. I hoped to have the money back in place, so’s I could…so’s I could buy you all…some…presents…but Henry Blakely—the feller who planned to invest in these gold mines—well… once he took my money, I never heard from him again. Been worryin’ ever since, not knowin’ what to do…”

“And I suppose the man is long gone, just like our savings?”

“My poor boy.” As the younger child, and the only male, he had always been coddled and spoiled by their mother. Perhaps that was part of the reason his moral yardstick had never provided a very accurate measure for behavior becoming to an adult. “I know you meant well. You always have.”

From her position at the stove, Gwen’s snort left no doubt as to her opinion. Angrily she turned.

“Mama, he’s twenty-two years old; stop babying him. You do realize his tom foolishness has left all of us penniless, don’t you?”

“Has left all of who penniless?”

The inside back door already stood open to fresh morning air and the sounds of the outdoors; Donald Smith, patriarch, pushed aside the screened frame and entered over his wife’s protest.

“Yes, Marie, I already worshed off the grime and left my shoes on the porch,” he assured her. Joining his daughter at the stove for his own cup of coffee, he repeated, “Now, what’s all this about bein’ penniless?”

He was a big man who had handed down his coloring to both children. Although the brilliant red of his hair had grizzled into gray, as the years advanced, and the green of his eyes had faded a bit, it was plain to see which side of the family tree had predominated in his progeny.

For personality, however, Gwen could definitely be seen as her father’s daughter, with her spirit of independence (sometimes recklessness), determination upon a bold course, and quick intelligence. Whereas Edward followed more in his mother’s footsteps: less aggressive and quieter. Certainly more easily manipulated.

Wary silence filled the room after Donald’s question for the second time, and he grew impatient. “Well? Somebody wanna tell me what’s goin’ on?”

The women were waiting for Eddie to divulge his terrible news, but he was looking down at his boots as if considering the size and shape of a new pair.

Finally, Gwen felt it incumbent to step into the breach. “We have no more money in the bank, Papa. Nothing. It’s all completely gone.”

“Not completely,” Eddie retorted.

Gwen sent another glare his way.

“It’s this way, Donald, dear,” said his wife.

Carefully she explained. Carefully she attempted to draw some of the blame upon herself (how she had ever felt that might fly, no one could yet understand), thus deflecting the rest from the actual perpetrator. Carefully she began to put forward a worst-case scenario.

At that juncture, Donald, blinking in astonishment as he absorbed this ghastly revelation, collapsed into a chair. As he did so, without heed to his surroundings, Gwen quickly reached out to grab his cup before it could fall from his loosened grip.

“I gotta take this in. Nothin’ makes sense.”

He was a strong, stalwart individual, used to making his own way and providing for his family. But as he began coming to the realization that his life’s savings were gone due to the misguided machinations of his own son, Donald tried to pull all his resources together.

Gwen knew him so well. She knew that he would not weep, nor would he gnash his teeth. But, suffering inwardly, he would withdraw, tighten self-control to the point of repression, and disengage from much of the interaction with his nearest and dearest—by whom he couldn’t help feeling betrayed, even if apparently only his son were involved.

“Destitute,” he whispered.

Looking up, his wandering gaze swept over the room, taking in the stone-still figures of those who depended upon him. It was too much to bear. Even though through no fault of his own, he must have felt he had failed those he loved the most.

Slowly he hauled himself out of his chair and, moving with the stiffened, palsied, fumbling motions of an old man far past his prime, he made for the door and outside to where he could be alone, to think and to process.

The fights would come later, along with drinking and depression.

*  *  *  *  *

“Papa.”

She had immediately known where to search for him.

It had been his refuge, his escape, his place to ponder all the ins and outs of any problem for as long as she could remember. The back pasture, with its shady overhang of cottonwood branches, and its small herd of cattle browsing on fresh grass in the distance, always seemed to call him. He was standing there now, with his back to her, and one boot upraised to rest on a lower fence rung.

“I’m sorry, Papa. We’ll make it through…somehow.”

Approaching, she slipped one arm around his waist, and he returned the favor. Both remained silent for a few minutes, letting the beauty of early morning, with its timbered hills and slant of silvered sunshine, bring solace to their deeply troubled spirits. Not far away, Gwen’s chestnut mare, Jezebel, recognizing her scent, let out a welcoming neigh, and, closer still, a jenny wren chattered away her warning cry.

“I dunno, honey,” her father finally said in a low, defeated voice. “I’ve weathered lotsa storms, buildin’ up this farm over the years. Bad crops,hail that ruined a whole field of hay, and the early spring frost that killed off what was comin’ up of the wheat I had planted. Bad loans from the bank durin’ the country’s downturns. But, this? I just dunno.”

“He never meant to cause such a stew. Eddie always means well.”

“Yeah, I know. He ain’t criminal, not by a long shot, but good intentions don’t keep me from wantin’ to wring his consarned neck. Sometimes that boy don’t have a lick of sense, and right now I’m so goldarned mad at him that my brain ain’t workin’ straight.” Donald managed a thin, weary smile that held no humor, only pathos.

Gwen tucked a loose tendril of fiery hair behind one ear. “If it is true, Papa—if he’s taken everything we had, and lost it-what on earth will we do from here?”

“Gotta think on it some. Reckon Merkelson’s will still give us credit for a while, for whatever food and supplies we need to buy, but that’s like goin’ hat in hand to beg for charity. Done that too many times in my life; I sure hate to do it again.”

“Maybe we ought to hire Eddie out on contract to neighboring ranches, so he can repay what he took from us?” Gwen said darkly. “What can I do to help, Papa?”

Turning slightly, with the approval he never failed to shine upon her, Donald squeezed her waist. “Not your problem, child. This is for me to deal with, and to try to find our way out.”

As always, he was pulling in on himself, as if to provide a smaller target for all the slings and arrows of fate. Gwen’s heart ached for him. For all four of them, even Eddie, at whom she was ready to hurl rocks. Big rocks.

“I have a little money tucked away in my room,” she said. “I want you to take it, Papa, and use it however you need to.”

“Gwen, dear, I certainly can’t—”

“I shall be very upset with you if you refuse, Papa. It’s the least I can do. And shortly I intend to go inside, turn Eddie upside down, and shake every penny from his pockets.”

She could do it, too. Of course, at the basis of everything, she loved her brother; there was no getting around that, because they were family and had only each other as siblings. Layered above the love lay a thick veneer of anger, however. It would take a long time to recover from this blow and to find forgiveness in her heart.

Her father was staring off into the distance, as if the answer to all their problems might exist in the cloudless blue sky and the swelling mountain peaks miles away.

“I think I can eke out enough somewheres along the line to make this month’s bank payment,” he murmured to himself. “It’s gonna be tight, but…”

“I realize it’s too soon to sell any crops. What about stock? Any of the cattle? Or the hogs?”

“Naw. Lost a few of the cows, y’ know, durin’ the winter. Maybe I can—” He interrupted his musing to send her a sharp look. “Nothin’ about this added bad news to your mother, Guinevere. Weak heart, remember; can’t take any shocks. Surprised your brother tried layin’ the burden of all this on her.”

“Eddie doesn’t seem to think too far ahead.” Gwen’s tone only reinforced his own sharpness. “But I agree about Mama. He never should have said anything in front of her. She isn’t strong enough to bear all this mess he’s caused.”

“Yeah. Can’t help bein’ almighty disappointed in him, let alone boilin’ mad. Had to get outta the house before I did somethin’ I’d regret.”

Gwen leaned forward to place her elbows on the top rail. “Do you think there’s any point reporting this to the sheriff, Papa?”

“Doubt it, honey. Too far in the past, and for sure Eddie’s con man took off for greener pastures long ago. But I figured I’d go talk to John, regardless. Can’t hurt, right?”

She could certainly agree with that. Patting his arm, she assured him that he was not alone in this, and that she would do her best to give aid in any way possible.

“Best you just give aid to your ma, instead. That’ll relieve my mind considerable.”

“I can do that, but I can also find employment. Surely someone in Viridian will have something I can do? I’ll take Jezebel tomorrow and ask around.”

“Mighta known I couldn’t get you to lay off, Gwen. You’re too much like me. Meanwhile, I’m gonna get that boy out here. About time he takes more responsibility for runnin’ this place, even if it means workin’ his fool head off. I figure he owes the rest of us a darn sight.”

Her mouth tightened. “He does, indeed.”

“Well, now, let’s stop right there. We ain’t gonna talk about this no more. Too much of a heart scald. Deal?”

A sigh. “Deal, Papa. Deal.”

*  *  *  *  *

“Fold.”

“Yeah. I fold, too.”

“Well, then, my friends, I reckon I have no choice but to raise.”

How much fascination, how much intrigue, how much magic lay in one deck of playing cards? How much pleasure could be gained from those dear little suits and their dear little numbers, any combination of which might rake in a whole pot of chips, which would translate into cash!

A month had passed since the bombshell news had been dropped upon the stunned Smith family. There’d been a good deal of aftermath while everyone labored to engage in a new regime. It had been a month of thought and preparation by one member in particular.

Fluttery little Marie, being kept deliberately in the dark over the worst of what had befallen them, went about her normal routine as well as she could with Gwen’s help. The males worked long and hard at all the outdoor chores; and a disconsolate Eddie had, all on his own, arranged to take up the added duties as delivery boy for Merkelson’s General Store.

During all that busy month, Gwen had hatched a plan, working it over again and again in her mind and polishing every detail until it seemed perfect.

Whatever other wrongs her brother had done to the family honor and finances, he had inadvertently done one thing right. He had taught her all the ins and outs, the whys and wherefores, of playing a game of chance.

He’d taught her how to win.

Even as a child, picking up the necessary education from the occasional itinerant farm worker, or from willing collaborators sitting outside Viridian’s saloons, Eddie had enjoyed the games enough to teach an eager sibling what he had learned. Not enough to pursue things any further on his own behalf; he had little interest in a future that involved such machinations as would be needed to make a career of it.

And not so much that the senior Smiths would have any inkling of this clandestine form of amusement.

No, this was done undercover, behind the barn, out in the fields, whenever either Smith youngling could seize the chance. All one needed was to produce the well-worn pack of gaming cards for the other to immediately join in. Almost like the Pied Piper of Hamelin, and his unfortunate mischief of followers.

As early as the age of ten, Gwen had learned how to play straight poker, draw poker, and five card stud. She had learned every one of the ten winning hands, from the Royal Flush and Straight Flush all the way down to the One Pair and High Card. She had learned various “tells,” with the advice, “ When playing hands, watch their hands .”

She was quick, she was good, and, more importantly, she was pretty.

The fact that she was pretty, and that she was a woman taking part in a man’s game (rare enough, despite the number of opportunities in this games-rich community), might prove to be enough of a distraction for those five or six or seven male players sitting in around a table.

During that first week of the past month, every member of the Smith family had struggled through their days, dogged by inescapable specters of gloom and doom, only to fall into a restless, churning sleep at night.

That was when Gwen’s plot had begun to gel.

Now, a week later, she needed to visit her good friend, Silvia Contessa, and put her plan into action.

*  *  *  *  *

“You want to do what ?”

“I want to dress like a sophisticated lady of the evening, and I want to start playing poker at one of the better saloons. And I want you to help me.”

“Guinevere!” Silvia’s dark eyes rounded in astonishment. “You want my help to become a—

a—” Deliberately she lowered her voice, “—a Cortesana ?”

“Mercy me, no, you silly goose. Not a paramour. I want to become the best, most winningest gambler in Viridian.”

The Contessa home was a compact but warm and welcoming place built on the edge of town, in a quiet neighborhood far from downtown’s reckless and colorful hullabaloo, whose noise went on unabated at all hours. The girls, close in age, had been fast friends since their school days, and had, in childhood, often spent nights at each other’s houses.

With adulthood, they had remained inseparable, but busy. So their times of being together had become, of necessity, more infrequent and of limited duration. Silvia had been surprised, but pleased, when Gwen had appeared at her door a few hours ago.

“Ginevra! You have come to visit, no?” cried Signora Contessa, appearing with arms opened for an embrace. Since she was nearly as wide as she was tall, this maneuver became somewhat of a gymnastic event. “Boys, you hear me—go put up the lady’s horse and buggy. Now, immediatamente ! Fretta ; go! Oh, Ginevra, you so skinny! You eat with us, we fatten you up!”

Gwen laughed. The atmosphere of this Italian household, with its roly-poly matriarch who laid down the law in every corner, seven boisterous half-grown and full-grown sons running about, and a black-mustachioed husband who was gone laboring in his bakery more often than not, seemed so different from her own rather sparse and severe home life—especially now.

Because, now, some of her father’s shock had begun to wear off. To ease his melancholy during the day, he would sometimes drink a glass or two of her mother’s elderberry wine; to ease his doldrums during the night, ditto. Those potent spirits loosened the guard on his tongue, so that quarrels with Eddie would spurt up out of nowhere.

The realization that all they had worked for was lost played hob with everyone’s lives.

Donald, haggard; Marie, forlorn; Eddie, the cause of all this misery, so hangdog and apologetic that his light, easy nature was taking on a darkness no one could have imagined.

Gwen needed to charge ahead with her plans. Soon. Before her whole family fell apart, and even the farm would be forever gone to them.

“Good evening, Mama.” Her greeting included not only the crushing hug but a hearty kiss on both cheeks. “I would enjoy eating with you, thanks. Your cooking is like no one else’s in the world. You could work as chef in the finest kitchen, and diners would swoon.”

“Oh, no, no, you never tasted my nonna’s food. Ah, delizioso !” But clearly she was delighted by the compliment, for her broad smile beamed even more brightly. “Come, come, we go to kitchen.”

They found Signore Contessa seated near the tile fireplace, squinting under a lantern that shone pale light upon a newspaper’s pages. With courtly manners, he rose, gave her a grin, and embraced her with as much enthusiasm as his wife had.

“Ginevra. You eat with us, yes?”

The meal was hot, hearty, filling, and very noisy, as was usually the case. Three of the older boys were absent; one was visiting a young lady, and two were already beginning work at the bakery. After a blessing was spoken over the food, a platter of antipasto was served. Then came risotto, and next a plate of several large baked fish, with vegetables, a salad, cheese and fruit. Last of all, dessert. In this case, tiramisu.

Consuming so much took considerable time and energy. Gwen, familiar enough with the scope of Mama Contessa’s culinary talents, had deliberately eaten sparingly, despite the urgings of the whole family to take second or third helpings. Still, once finished, she could barely reel away from the table, feeling like one drunk on edibles—if that were even possible.

Clear-up and clean-up used more time. Then, at last, the Signore took himself off to work, the Signora prepared whatever was necessary for the morrow before settling down with some fine sewing, and the boys scattered to their various pursuits. Gwen was free to escape with Silvia to her room for some girl talk and the advice that was always forthcoming.

She just needed money, Gwen confided, once the two young women were luxuriating in the freedom of cool lawn nightgowns and a wide bed upon which to sprawl. No need to disclose the details of what had happened; she merely said that her family had recently had some financial reverses and she simply must help.

“Thanks to Eddie, I’m a good poker player. I’m a very good poker player. So, I thought—”

“You don’t want to come work with me at the Ironwood Club?”

With a grimace, Gwen shook her head. “I know it’s one of the best restaurants in town, Sil, and that you’re paid well for all you do. But you’re standing, or walking, or running the whole time you’re there. You’re exhausted when you finally get home. I’d rather sit comfortably with cards in my hand, survey the room, and look like a lady of mystery.”

Silvia giggled and flung a small pillow at her friend. “Lady of mystery. There are some people around who will know your identity.”

“Not if I’m working from a saloon. Now, tell me-which one is the best?”

“Best saloon? Blessed if I know. What do you take me for, anyway—a tosspot?” Giggling again, she plopped down at her dressing table and began to brush the luxuriant blue-black locks that fell to the middle of her back.

“Hmmm.” Thoughtfully, Gwen pulled her legs onto the bed, curled up, and settled against the head board. Stymied. This was a problem she hadn’t considered. “Uh, Sil. Do you think you might ask one of your brothers? Stefano—he’s the oldest.”

Silvia’s flashing dark eyes met her friend’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “With what excuse?”

“I don’t know, but I leave it up to you. You’re so creative.”

“Huh. So you say.”

“Uh. Sil. Could you perhaps ask him soon?”

“Do you not want to know all the latest gossip around Viridian? May I not tell you about several of the fascinating men I have met?”

Gwen smiled. “Silvia, dear, every man who meets you is fascinating—and fascinated. It must be that rich, exotic Italian blood that pulls them in like fish to the line. Yes, I want to hear. Later. Now, will you go?”

Grumbling and sighing simultaneously in her dramatic way, Silvia threw a dressing gown around her shoulders, belted it fast, and slipped out of the room. After a moment, voices could be heard, at first murmurous, then raised in excitement and disbelief. Another few minutes elapsed before Silvia returned, slightly flushed.

“The Purple Parrot. It’s one of the nicest, and the least prone to fisticuffs and arrests.”

“Oh. Interesting name. What was all the fuss about out there?”

“Well, Stefano had returned from the bakery, so I was able to talk with him. Unfortunately, Mama overheard.”

“Um.” Gwen, imagining the scene, rolled her eyes. “Oh, bother. What did she say?”

Placing her hand on her heart for theatrical effect, Silvia proclaimed in her mother’s tones: “I am sciocatto , shocked to the core, that you young innocent girls might show such an interest in these—these disgusting places as to argue over nicest or poorest! Incredibile !”

It was Gwen’s turn to giggle. “She’s such a sweetheart.”

“Ah, if you but realized—!” Silvia shot her friend a look half-disgruntled, half-amused. “That woman would have me go directly from my parents’ house to my husband’s, without ever having met the man in between times. If such an upbringing was good enough for her, she insists, it’s good enough for me. Thank the Blessed Lady that my father is much more practical!”

“You did mention that she has considered handing you over to a convent.”

Silvia, tearing off her wrapper, shuddered. “Yes. Except for the fact that I am her only daughter. That much works in my favor. Very well, Gwen, another problem solved. We have the what, we have the why, we have the where. Next?”

“Well, part of the what is proper attire.”

“Such as? Your clothes look fine to me.” She offered a critical up and down survey of the discarded outfits hanging from a wall hook. “Indeed. You would want something slightly more dressy than what you have now, but certainly—”

“I need to dazzle.” Gwen flung her arms wide, in imitation of Silvia’s extravagant gestures. “I need to flash and fluster, I need to shimmer and shimmy with gorgeousness!”

“I see. That means you want to borrow one of my dresses.”

“Exactly! Your wardrobe is so much more—um—lavish—than mine. That lovely deep lavender gown, if you please. And how fitting, if I am to make my debut at the Purple Parrot?”

From then, until they finally fell into bed, exhausted, the two made plans for Guinevere’s launch into poker-playing society.

The question of when? Two weeks, that she might hone up on her skills. The question of how to get back and forth? Atop Jezebel, in her farm clothes, with the opportunity to change at the Contessas’ home before proceeding on to her goal. That maneuver would also provide cover for her clandestine activities for both sets of parents. The question of safety? There, again, another stymie.

“Wait,” whispered Gwen, as her friend was just drifting off. “Papa has a number of weapons hanging above the fireplace in that little room he uses as an office. I seem to remember seeing a derringer up there. That would do, wouldn’t it?”

“Probably.” Silvia yawned. “Tucked into your reticule, used at close range, if…necessary…” Another yawn. “Now, you need to come up with a name. Something—dare devilish…and dashing…”

Gwen’s eyes widened in the semi-darkness. “Oh. You’re right. Let me think…”

---

“Love Brought by Fate” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Guinevere Smith has been doing everything in her power to help her desperate family that’s been left penniless. When nothing seems to be enough, Gwen decides to make use of one of her special skills; playing excellent poker. She masks her identity using a fake name, and carries herself, at all times, as the most decorous of ladies. On her way home after a very successful night of racking up winnings, one of the unlucky players attacks her. Her life is about to change forever, though, when a handsome gambler comes to her rescue. In an attempt to offer his help, he impulsively blurts out an unexpected proposal. Will Gwen manage to save her family from financial destruction without risking her own fate?

Adam Hardy is a hard worker who is looking to settle down. The moment he lays eyes on Gwen, he can’t help but feel overwhelmed. He asks about her, trying to find out who she is and when they finally play poker together, he finds it hard to concentrate. When Adam wins a bet against her, he finds out everything about the hard position she’s in. Determined to win her heart, he promises to help with her family’s debts as long as she agrees to marry him. Will Adam keep his promise or is his offer just another good bluff? Is it possible for him to gain more than he ever expected, and perhaps even a chance at real romance?

A marriage of convenience will bring Adam and Gwen closer as they struggle to come to terms with troubles on their road. Secrets that have plagued them all their lives will test the couple’s dedication to each other, as they find their lives unexpectedly intertwined…As they try to overcome past mistakes, will their new life together include love, or is there too much that stands between them?

“Love Brought by Fate” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!