Straight For The Heart Read online

  STRAIGHT FOR THE HEART

  by Marsha Canham

  Copyright 2011 © Marsha Canham

  Smashwords edition published June 2011

  ISBN 978-0-9877023-3-3

  This book was originally published by Dell, 1995. All right reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Marsha Canham.

  This Ebook version is dedicated to my three main munchkins, Austin, Payton, and Carter, to my son Jeffrey who makes me proud to be a mom every day, to my daughter in law, Michelle, my adopted son in law Kevin, and my other daughter in law Cindy.

  I hope they all know how much they mean to me.

  PROLOGUE

  Montana Rose paused under the crimson and white archway and drew a deep breath. The main gambling salon was alive with the sights and sounds the huge paddle wheelers had become famous for. The tables—blackjack, faro, roulette, and keno—swarmed with patrons of all shapes and sizes. Coins sparkled on the green baize tabletops, glass chips chattered noisily in and out of wooden slots. Great mahogany wheels spun with a feverish energy producing a blood-thrilling hum all their own. The level of noise rose and fell with a distinct rhythm, the sound flowing from one end of the salon to the other as if in keeping with the gentle flow of the river currents beneath her keel.

  Montana’s extraordinary blue eyes took in the length and breadth of the entire salon in a long, careful sweep as she savored the heady atmosphere she had come to associate with wealth, power, and pleasure. Only the very rich—or the very foolhardy—could afford what the Mississippi Queen offered. She was an elegant gambling casino, a queen among queens, a floating palace that catered to all tastes ranging from expensive wine to exquisitely beautiful women.

  Montana’s gaze rose from the churning activity in the belly of the salon and prowled slowly around the railed, curtained alcoves that shared the same level as the fountainous crystal chandeliers. Cigar smoke blurred the entrances to the private booths, hanging in thin, diaphanous layers that shifted and swirled in tiny whirlpools as men and women moved from booth to booth in a shimmering kaleidoscope of color. Hostesses, clad in scarlet satin and glittering, feathered headdresses, disappeared behind the plush tapestries carrying full bottles of whiskey and bourbon, emerging seconds later with their trays burdened with empty bottles and dishes brimming with cigar butts. To the novice, what went on behind those tapestries made for curious speculation. To the knowledgeable few, the private booths were where real money was won or lost.

  Montana felt a subtle increase in the pulsebeat throbbing through her veins. She had dressed carefully this night, meticulously brushing the dark emerald velvet of her gown until it gleamed with lushness. Her hair was gathered into a mass of honey-gold curls that crowned the back of her head and trailed in shiny spirals over sloping white shoulders, drawing the eye downward to the breathtaking plunge of the scalloped bodice.

  Contrasting with the translucent whiteness of her skin, the velvet seemed to cling by the merest of promises to the rounded swell of her breasts. There, nestled snugly in the deep cleft, was her solitary adornment; a delicate, heart-shaped gold locket bearing an ornately stylized M in etched with pinpoints of small, fiery gemstones. The long, exotically draped tiers of her skirt hinted at equally long, exotic legs beneath. A frilled back panel of butter-yellow lace spilled from the elegant bustle to trail almost a full pace behind her, which required anyone who wanted to gain entrance to the salon to stop and wait for her to move aside.

  She was in no hurry to do so.

  A head turned, noting the disturbance. Another head turned, and another. An arm nudged a companion and the mechanical spinning of the roulette wheels was ignored for a few brief moments. The low murmur of appreciation was noticed by the captain of the stern-wheeler, Benjamin Winston Turnbull, whose craggy face split into an immediate grin.

  A formidable figure of a man, Captain Turnbull was built not unlike his riverboat—solid of beam and wide across the stern. His full, black beard was liberally shot with silver, as was the thickly waved tangle of hair that surrounded a face fashioned after weathered lava rock. His eyes were deep set and darker than coal, adept at concealing all but the most unexpected reactions. They snapped alive now as he identified the cause of the turbulence at the entryway.

  “Well,” he said huskily, turning his back on a patron who had suddenly been reduced to insignificance, “if it isn’t my favorite little peacock, out in full feather.”

  The captain reached the landing in three giant strides. Montana extended both hands and felt them swallowed into Ben’s huge bear paws.

  “It’s good to see you,” she laughed softly.

  “I wish you’d let me know ahead when you plan to visit us. I could bring in twice the business on your name alone.”

  “I’d rather surprise you,” she answered, her voice as naturally sensual as the rest of her body. “And I’d rather not play into anyone else’s hands.”

  The captain’s smile took on a hard edge as the lower half of his spine turned to butter. “Come. Humor an old friend by sharing a sip of brandy with him. ’Pon my word, but you get lovelier every time I see you.”

  He continued to hold one of Montana’s hands as he led her down the stairs and steered her through the crowded tables toward his own private booth. She was as slim and delicate as a porcelain figurine, with the top of her head barely reaching his chin. From his superior height, he was afforded a spectacular view down the front of her bodice, and he could feel the buttery sensation spreading upward to constrict the walls of his chest. He gave the cool, slender fingers an involuntary caress and was pleased to imagine a measure of the intimacy returned.

  “Business as usual, I see,” she murmured, waiting patiently for the coal-black eyes to lift to hers. “A credit to you, Ben, for I don’t believe I have ever found the Queen at anything less than full capacity. And only the best people too; where do you manage to find them?”

  “They find me.” He grinned, holding the back of the chair while she settled artfully onto a crush of lace and velvet. “And the reputation of the Queen guarantees they keep coming back. Just like you.”

  “Are there any games going on tonight?”

  As he seated himself opposite the emerald-clad beauty, the captain allowed himself a wry glance around the salon. It was crammed stem to stern. Not a table was suffering for want of attention, nor was a space vacant for longer than a few seconds before another eager player jostled to fill it. But Ben knew what she meant, and his blood quickened perceptibly.

  “There are one or three might prove interesting to you,” he said, lowering his voice to a throaty rasp. “In the corner above the faro table. Five players. Stakes not too high, not too low. Easy spenders who don’t seem to mind losing. Been on board for the whole trip upriver from New Orleans. Speculators by my reckoning, with new money to burn.”

  The drinks arrived and Ben took a deep swallow before continuing.

  “Two alcoves down, pretty well the same thing. Spending greenbacks like they washed in with the tide. Last possibility is on your left in the rear—” He waited for the ice-blue eyes to flick up and over his shoulder. “Three of them have been on board for the week, one since noon yesterday, and we picked up two others this evening. Hot money
there, but it all seems to be going in one direction. Looks like a sharp to me, so it would depend on if you were in a mood to test him, see how good he was.”

  Montana’s interest lingered on the last booth for a few seconds, debating the challenge, but in the end, it reverted to the booth above the faro tables.

  Ben nodded in agreement and grinned again. “Be my choice too. Easy pickings. Bored with being together so long with nothing to talk about except business. I’m sure they would appreciate some new blood, ’specially if it was packaged right.”

  Montana’s gaze met his with a directness that caused his breath to catch. “Do you think I’m … packaged right?”

  Ben’s chest burned and his belly ached with a fresh, hard surge of blood. Flesh that had been fighting against the constraints of his breeches since he had seen her on the landing tested the tailor’s skill yet again, causing him to set his teeth in a wry grimace.

  “Hell,” he murmured, “they’ll be so bloody appreciative, they won’t even know they’re playing poker with the best damned pair of hands to come along since the high days of Billy Fleet. You just wait here and enjoy your drink while I mosey on up and put a bug in their ears.”

  He finished his brandy with an audible gulp and pushed to his feet, thankful his broadcloth jacket was long enough to camouflage the reason for his brusque strides.

  Montana watched his progress and seemed to take no notice as a face she knew as well as her own passed by her table and tossed a casual glance her way. She avoided making any eye contact, but was keenly aware of the gentleman's presence as he took a seat at the bar and ordered a large whiskey.

  A long, fine-boned finger tapped noiselessly on the table-top, then stroked smoothly up and down the side of the brandy snifter. At a table nearby, a player was enthusiastically throwing dice, obviously enjoying a run of good luck. Montana followed the tosses for a moment, but then the focus of her gaze shifted subtly and she found herself staring past the dice player’s shoulder, drawn by a pair of smoky gray eyes that seemed to have come out at her from nowhere. The man they belonged to had been staring at her, a not unusual circumstance in itself, but the fact that he appeared to have no other interest in any of the activities around him would have made him stand out in the crowd even if his piratical good looks had not.

  He was tall and impressively broad across the shoulders, with dark chestnut hair that fell in carelessly handsome waves to the collar of his shirt. A luxuriantly thick moustache followed the curved line of his smile, expanding to embolden a square jawline that needed no such assistance. In response to Montana’s casual appraisal, the slash of straight, even teeth gleamed in anticipation. But if he expected her to offer an invitation to join her, his hopes were crushed with Captain Turnbull’s reappearance. Montana’s brief lapse in concentration ended as well, and she was standing by the table, her drink untouched, when Ben arrived back at her side.

  “They said as how they’d be honored to make your acquaintance,” he advised her. “Especially after I offered personal assurances as to your character.”

  Montana slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and let him escort her up the stairs and along the narrow balcony. “May I assume these … personal assurances come with the usual arrangements?”

  He lowered his voice. “Five percent,” he agreed, nonplussed by the act of discussing his cut of the profits even as he boasted the honesty of his ship.

  She smiled again, as comfortable with Benjamin Turnbull’s greed as she was with his casual lechery. Neither was a threat to her, and, with a deliberate toss of her tawny gold curls, she passed through the wings of the crimson velvet curtains and entered the smoky alcove. Someone paying very close attention might have seen her turn and glance directly at the man watching from his seat at the bar, but the only one who followed her progress with any interest now was the gentleman with the handlebar moustache, and he seemed more intent on catching a last glimpse of the graceful motion of her hips before the curtain dropped behind her, cocooning her in privacy.

  “Gentlemen,” Ben announced smoothly, “allow me the pleasure of introducing Miss Montana Rose. She was hoping there might be some space for her at your table.”

  Montana scanned each face in turn, noting with a practiced eye which of them seemed amused at the prospect of having a woman join their game and which of them were deciding their evening of hard gambling, hard liquor, and hard language was more or less over.

  As she did at the outset of every game she joined, she set their minds at ease with a small laugh and a practiced speech. “Nothing you say or do during the course of the game will shock me; neither my ears nor my imagination has been virginal for quite some time. I give no quarter and ask for none in return, I am not like any of your mothers, I am not like any of your sisters, and thank the good gracious God, I am not like any of your wives.”

  She waited for the round of gruff laughter to end and took her seat near a portly, red-faced participant who watched the glitter of coins that spilled from her reticule with almost the same amount of interest he bestowed on her cleavage.

  “Ten-dollar ante,” he mused. “No limit on the raises, dealer’s choice. Is that acceptable to you, Miss Rose?”

  “Montana. And yes, it’s quite acceptable.”

  “Good. Best of luck then. Newcomer deals.”

  Part One

  DEALER’S CHOICE

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Damn and blast, I’ve got you again!” William Courtland’s gravel-rough voice cut through the silence with a smug chortle. “I’ve got you with three little Jakes.”

  Alisha Courtland glanced sharply at her father. His bushy white eyebrows were crushed together over the bridge of his nose, his mouth bristled with undisguised mirth as he leaned forward to fan his cards on the table.

  “Three!” Her vivid blue eyes narrowed in disbelief as she glared first at the royal winners, then at the gloating smile that puffed her father’s cheeks.

  “Three Jakes,” he repeated, thrusting a stubby finger at each pasteboard in turn. “One … two … three … Which means the pot is mine. Again.”

  Alisha bristled as she watched her father rake the heap of matchsticks to his side of the table.

  “You did it during the draw,” she scowled. “You must have. I was watching the deal too closely, and you couldn’t have done it then or I would have seen it.”

  “You have been known to miss a trick or two, young lady,” he said, immensely pleased with himself.

  “But not during the deal,” she insisted. “Ryan—did you see how he did it?”

  The eldest Courtland offspring spread his hands innocently. “I saw nothing. All I know is I drew three cards and each was worse than what I discarded.”

  Alisha sought her sister’s support. “Amanda?”

  “I’m afraid not. I’m with Ryan this time; nothing higher than a king.”

  Alisha sighed and leveled the full power of her eyes on her father. “All right, how did you do it? When did you do it?”

  “Tut-tut.” He wagged a finger like a lecturing dean. “If you couldn’t see a switch, how do you know it happened? Perhaps it was just the luck of the draw. Luck has been known to favor a hand now and then.”

  “Not around you,” she retorted. “And wasn’t it you who said luck was just a bit player, and if a man didn’t know how to turn it to his own advantage, he shouldn’t be sitting at the table?”

  “I said that?” William asked, admiring his own wisdom.

  “You did. And how am I supposed to learn how to turn luck to my advantage if you won’t teach me all your tricks?”

  “They are not tricks, young miss,” he protested with an arching of an eyebrow. “They are skills. And you are supposed to acquire them through acute observation and diligent practice. Not by throwing out your lower lip and sulking.” He scooped up the loose cards and began to shuffle. “Shall we try again … paying attention this time?”

  “Deal me out.” Ryan laughed, tossing his last
matchstick into the kitty. He stood and stretched, flexing the smooth muscles in his arms and chest as he did so. He was tall and solidly built, possessing the familial cornflower-blue eyes that twinkled as he looked at each of his sisters in turn. Amanda was the only one who returned his smile—and glowered at him at the same time for abandoning her—but he only shrugged and walked around the table to stand behind William’s cane-back wheelchair. The lamplight caught the sharper angle of his jaw and burnished the dark gold color of his hair, but there could be no mistaking the resemblance between father and son. Even the lines and creases on their faces had formed in similar patterns.

  “Please, Ryan, tell me they are not at it again.”

  Ryan turned at the sound of his mother’s querulous voice. She was seated in front of the fire, as close to the heat as she could manage without threat of a cinder catching the hem of her skirt. Her head was bowed over her sewing, but as Ryan joined her, she tilted her face upward to peer through the owlish lenses of her spectacles.

  “They aren’t, are they?” she asked again, sighing with the futility of a false hope. “I thought you were playing a friendly game of whist.”

  “We were,” Ryan said, and stretched his hands toward the warm blaze. “For the first five minutes.”

  “And now they won’t let you play anymore?”

  Ryan held his smile in check, knowing his mother’s concern was, as always, genuine. Sarah Fayworth Courtland was as round and soft as a dumpling, a full head and shoulders shorter than her husband—who was himself a mere inch shy of six feet—and possessed of such tender and easily disrupted sensibilities, there was always a bottle of smelling salts within easy reach. It was a mystery and a constant source of amazement to all who knew them how Sarah had managed to bear her husband five children and survive twenty-seven years of tumultuous wedlock. But survive she had, with the aid of her salts and the fearsomely protective mammy, Mercy.