Chapter 1
July 1894—Pecan Gap, Texas
Logan Fowler dismounted outside the Lucky Lady Saloon, anticipation thrumming in his veins. Seven years. That was how long he’d been waiting to enact justice. Seven years of loss, sacrifice, and preparation. And today represented the beginning of the end—for Zacharias Hamilton.
“I’ll make it right, Ma,” Logan vowed beneath his breath. He patted his chestnut’s neck before wrapping the reins around the hitching post. “For Pop.”
Logan tugged his hat brim a little lower on his forehead. The long white scar that slashed diagonally across his left eye from halfway up his brow to a spot close to the top of his ear tended to draw attention, and he’d rather be inconspicuous while gathering information. Not that the scar didn’t have its advantages. Especially in saloons. Looking dangerous gave a man an edge. Demanded respect.
At only twenty-three, Logan had worked hard to cultivate a stony bearing to match the hard heart he’d spent seven years callousing. He wore a beard to disguise his youth and a gun to keep folks at a distance.
He squinted toward the west, where the sun still hovered well above the horizon. A mite early for a crowd to have gathered in the saloon, but then, he’d timed his arrival for precisely that outcome. An inveterate gambler like Hamilton wouldn’t bother to put in an appearance until the whiskey had been flowing for a couple hours, softening the brains and the inhibitions of his marks. Which made now the perfect time to collect intelligence.
With slow, swagger-heavy steps, Logan strode up to the batwing doors and pushed through. He moved just inside the entrance and stood with his back to the wall as his eyes adjusted to the dim interior.
A woman with henna-red hair and a bodice that left little to the imagination stood with her hands on her hips atop the small stage at the front of the room, haranguing the piano player about rushing the tempo of her song. A group of four men—farmers, judging by their overalls and serious expressions—sat around a corner table, discussing the necessity of getting a Populist elected to Congress. But it was the man behind the long, polished counter that Logan found most intriguing.
“Thirsty, mister?” the barkeep asked as Logan approached. He finished drying a tall glass, then used the dish towel to shine up the counter in front of the stool closest to Logan. “Delta County is dry, I’m afraid, but I’ve an assortment of switchels and shrubs, ginger water, sarsaparilla, coffee, or tea. Also got a full menu of food options if you’re in need of a meal.”
The barrel-chested fellow smiled warmly enough, if cautiously, as he took in Logan’s appearance, but when Logan pushed his hat back and fully exposed his scar, the disgust that registered in the barkeep’s face before he could hide it stirred Logan’s ire.
“Coffee’s fine.” Logan leaned an elbow on the bar, keeping his body angled so he could see both the barkeep and the door.
The Lucky Lady was a tame watering hole compared to the dives he’d frequented over the last four years, a necessary training ground for one who wanted to master not only cards but faces—learning to read tells and ferret out cheats. Consorting with the worst scoundrels humanity had to offer also taught a man a thing or two about survival. The recollection of the broken bottle that had been used to decorate his face kept Logan from underestimating anyone in the room. Even the flame-haired songbird making eyes at him as she conspicuously adjusted the scarlet garter holding up her black stocking. Women could be just as treacherous as men.
The barkeep set a brown ceramic mug on the counter in front of Logan, then retrieved a pot from the stove behind him. As he poured the brew, he peered up at Logan with a questioning arch of his brows. “So, you passin’ through?”
“Nope. Bought a spread up by the North Sulphur River. Plan to stay a spell.” At least until Zacharias Hamilton got his comeuppance.
His host eyed him with skepticism as he plopped a tin cup onto the counter. A small set of tongs rattled against the rim of the makeshift sugar bowl. “Ya don’t exactly strike me as the farmin’ type.” His gaze darted to the men at the corner table and back.
Logan shrugged and dropped two cubes of sugar into his coffee. “You got a spoon . . . ?” He drew out the pause, waiting for the barkeep to supply his name.
“Dunn. Arnold Dunn.” He wiped his hand on his pant leg, then extended it across the bar.
Logan shook it. “Logan Fowler.”
Dunn showed no recognition of the name. Not surprising. Seven years ago, the town had been brand-new, barely a post office to its name. Dunn probably hadn’t even been around. It wasn’t until the railroad came through in 1888 that people started flocking to the area. Which made Hamilton’s crime all the more severe. Logan’s father’s land would have tripled in value with the railroad’s arrival, but Hamilton had stolen it from him before that could happen. Had stolen his father’s life as well.
The barkeep extracted his hand, then found a spoon and set it on the counter next to the mug. As Logan stirred the dissolved sugar into his coffee, he cast a quick glance around the room to ensure no one was paying him any particular attention. Then he casually brought up the topic he most wanted to discuss.
“You get many high-stakes games in here?”
Dunn chuckled. “Didn’t call her the Lucky Lady for nuthin’, did I? Highest stakes in town. You a gamblin’ man?”
Logan took a sip of his coffee, studying the other man. “When properly motivated.”
“Only go for the rich pots, huh?” Dunn’s mouth curved in a sly grin.
Logan just sipped his coffee, letting the barkeep think what he would. In truth, Logan despised gambling. Hated the greed that accompanied it, the unnecessary risk, the completely irrational belief that one could actually control fate. He’d learned to count cards, to run probabilities in his head, to read the faces of those sitting at the table around him, but he still lost. Not as often as most, and not more often than he won, but often enough to remind him that control was an illusion. No man controlled fate. God alone claimed that honor.
He eyed Dunn over the brim of his mug. “You got any big players around here?”
Dunn shrugged. “Most of the folks in these parts don’t have much ready cash. The boys from the mill will get up a good game when they’ve got wages burning a hole in their pockets, but the rest play friendly games as a way to pass the time. Play runs deeper here than at L. A. Campbell’s place, though. I don’t put no limits on the stakes or kick people out if things get a little rowdy. Unless someone starts breakin’ up the place. That’s just bad for business.”
“A fellow by the name of Hamilton ever play here?” Logan’s gut clenched even as he forced his expression to remain cool. He wouldn’t want the man to think him too interested in the answer.
“Zach Hamilton?” Dunn’s eyebrows arched.
Logan lifted the coffee to his mouth in a carefully measured display of nonchalance. “Man has the reputation of a player, and I heard he lived around here.”
“Oh, he lives around here, all right. Probably’ll be your neighbor, seein’ as how his spread backs up to the river, too. But a player?” Dunn shook his head. “I can’t picture it. Oh, I’ve heard the rumors that he might have gambled in his younger days, but I ain’t never seen him so much as touch a deck in my place. Nowhere else in town neither, as far as I know.”
Logan froze, the cup halfway between his mouth and the counter. Never touched a deck? That couldn’t be right. The cardsharp his father had described would never just hang it up. The thrill of the game? The addicting rush of power that came with each win? Logan himself battled the pull, and he despised the pastime. It made no sense for a gamester like Hamilton to simply retire.
“Maybe he rides over to Ben Franklin to play,” Logan gritted out as he slowly lowered his cup. It would make sense. If Hamilton had set up permanent residence in Pecan Gap, he’d not want to stir up trouble amongst his neighbors. Beggaring them with his underhanded gameplay would make any aboveboard business dealings next to impossible. It’d be wiser to conduct his confidence games elsewhere, and Ben Franklin was only a few miles’ ride farther from the homestead than Pecan Gap. Or he could even ride to Cooper. Bigger city. More anonymity. The fact that he didn’t gamble here didn’t mean he didn’t gamble at all. It didn’t mean Logan’s scheme would fail. It just meant Logan would have to be patient. Learn Hamilton’s habits. Get under his skin. Hamilton was smart. Cagey smart. Logan would have to be smarter.
“I wouldn’t know anything about what Hamilton does over in Ben Franklin,” Dunn was saying, “but he don’t exactly seem the socializin’ type. All them Hamiltons keep to themselves.”
“All the Hamiltons?” The question jumped out of Logan’s mouth before he could mask his surprise. He quickly swigged another mouthful of coffee and forced his spine to soften back into a more casual position after springing to attention at Dunn’s statement.
“There’s three of ’em.” Dunn glanced around, then placed an elbow on the bar and leaned close, lowering his voice to a raspy half-whisper. “Odd bunch. Claim to be siblings, but if you ask me, there’s no way they’re related. Not by blood. None of ’em look a thing alike. And that girl?” He turned and spat at the floor.
Hoping there was a spittoon back there somewhere, Logan hid his repulsion at the barkeep’s abysmal manners and lowered his mug to the counter. Somehow, the coffee seemed a lot less appetizing after that display.
Dunn swiped the back of his hand beneath his lower lip, then eyed Logan with a grim expression. “I ain’t the superstitious sort, mind you, but if I were, I’d swear that gal was a witch. A freak of nature, she is. Eyes that don’t match. And I’m not just talkin’ about eyes that are slightly different shades. No, this gal has one eye as brown as chocolate and another so bright blue, it pierces a man’s soul.” He shivered. “I can feel that blue eye of hers following me whenever she’s around. Cursing me.” He turned his head and spat again.
Logan arched a sardonic brow. “And here I thought you weren’t the superstitious sort.”
“Scoff if you like, mister, but you’ll see what I mean if you stick around long enough. Get those eyes trained on you, and you’ll change your tune. See if you don’t.”
Logan didn’t care about some girl with mismatched eyes. He cared about Zacharias Hamilton. Although, if Hamilton was claiming this girl as his sister, Logan might be able to use that to his advantage somehow. His honor wouldn’t permit him to threaten her in any physical way, but if Hamilton had an emotional tie to the female, she might be a weakness Logan could exploit.
A good card player used every weapon at his disposal to win, only two of which were the actual cards and the chips in the pot. Rattling one’s opponent with a few well-placed barbs, using the hint of a grin to sell a bluff, complimenting a player who took a round through sheer luck on his exceptional skill in order to elicit overconfidence on the next hand—they were all strategies of emotional warfare. Strategies Logan had honed to a razor’s edge.
He pulled a coin from his trouser pocket and tossed it onto the bar. “Thanks for the coffee and the conversation.”
“Leavin’ already?” Dunn bristled. “Ya ain’t even finished your brew.”
“I’ll be back.” Logan winked. The barkeep might have the manners of a cockroach, but his information was solid. Best to keep him an ally for now. “I got a bit of a ride ahead of me. Time to get after it. But I hope to sample some of your other entertainments before too long.”
“Ah.” Dunn gave him a knowing grin. He nodded toward the redhead on stage. “Like what you see in Arabelle, huh? She may not have the best set of pipes in the county, but her set of—”
“I was thinking of the tables,” Logan interrupted. Good grief. The last thing he needed was a female in his way, complicating his mission and causing trouble. Unfortunately, the scantily clad Arabelle must have had ears like an owl, for she was clambering off the stage and heading his way with disconcerting haste.
Tugging his hat back down over his scarred eye, Logan straightened away from the bar. “Catch up with you later, Dunn.” He offered a wave in parting as he stretched his stride, choosing speed over swagger. At this juncture, self-preservation outranked image.
Once the saloon doors safely swung closed behind him, Logan relaxed. But only for a moment. His mind cranked through the new information he’d gained and what it might mean.
He unhitched his horse and mounted in a smooth motion while his brain churned. Hamilton wasn’t acting as Logan had expected. He’d need to modify his timetable, adjust his plans. Learn the man’s habits and ferret out his weaknesses.
So be it. Logan wouldn’t blow his chance to achieve justice for his father by getting in a hurry. He was willing to play the long game.
He clicked his tongue at Shamgar and headed off at a trot. Time to investigate the homestead. He might have bought the property as bait to lure Hamilton into a high-stakes game, but it would serve equally well as a place to conduct reconnaissance.
Hamilton wouldn’t remain a mystery for long.