Gambler's Magic Page 2

  It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that she should have been prevented from fulfilling her God-given destiny by so paltry a thing as influenza.

  “It’s your own fault,” she muttered under her breath. “You know what Mother always told you. You allowed your weakness to prevail. You should have battled the illness, fought it off, vanquished it with your own strength of spirit. And prayer.”

  She plied the broom more forcefully still as her mother’s voice lectured her in her brain. You’re a gutless creature, Joy Hardesty. A leaky vessel. Joy sniffed disconsolately. “I’m just like my father, in fact. If I don’t shape up, even God won’t want me.”

  Already God didn’t want her or she’d be in Mexico with Mr. Thrash instead of in Rio Hondo with Alexander McMurdo. Joy knew she was still feeble from her illness when tears sprang up in her eyes. Ruthlessly, because she knew those tears were weak and pitiful and proved her unfit to be her mother’s daughter, she swallowed them. “This is a judgment on you, Joy Hardesty. A judgment.”

  A tear leaked past the armed and fortified barrier she’d erected against it, and Joy heaved a dispirited sigh. Why, oh why, couldn’t she do anything but fail in life? Every time she tried to be what her mother wanted her to be, to do what her mother wanted her to do, she failed. Miserably. She’d never been able to do anything else. Which is why she was here, all alone except for the company of a few miserable sinners, in a hostile territory, sweeping a floor for a living.

  Knowing she was a failure gnawed at her. Every waking hour of the day, Joy carried the pain of her grief, like an open wound, in her chest. Every breath hurt her and restricted her breathing. The pain in her chest had been with her since her earliest days on earth, and was now as much a part of her as her skin and hair.

  What hurt even more than the knowledge that she was a miserable failure—hurt so much that Joy had been crying herself to sleep every night since she’d overcome her fever and realized what had happened—was knowing that the Reverend Mr. Hezekiah P. Thrash had gone on without her. As if she were of no more significance to him than a mule which, once crippled, had to be abandoned.

  According to Mr. McMurdo—and a less worthy example of the human male Joy had yet to meet—Mr. Thrash said he’d send for her if he could. If he could. Mr. Thrash hadn’t stuck around to tell Joy so himself. Nor had he left her so much as a scribbled note wishing her well and explaining his plans. He’d just consigned her to Mr. McMurdo’s care and gone on without her.

  “He’ll send for me if he can,” Joy murmured, sending a spray of dirt off the porch and into the yard. Not that it would stay there. The wind would blow it right back onto the porch again. She didn’t know why she bothered, except that she was a Christian woman and Mr. McMurdo, the wicked old scoundrel, was allowing her to work in his mercantile store until she’d made enough money for passage back to Auburn, Massachusetts, where she’d come from.

  “I don’t want to go back to Auburn,” she whispered as she set the broom in the corner. She pressed a hand to the ache in her chest and wondered if everyone in the world hurt like this, or if there was something physically wrong with her. A cancer of the soul, perhaps. “I want to be in the Mexican jungles with Mr. Thrash, preaching to the heathens and saving men’s souls.”

  “There are plenty of heathens around here you can preach to, if you’re of a mind to, lass.”

  Joy jumped and whirled around. She felt her cheeks catch fire. Jerusalem! She hated it when Mr. McMurdo sneaked up behind her. He was the most silent fellow Joy had ever met. She considered it merely one more manifestation of his fallen nature that he should creep about like this. She didn’t respond, because she was near tears, and she didn’t want to feel any more like a fool than she already did.

  “We have us a visitor for a while, Joy, m’dear,” the old sinner continued.

  Joy saw the tall stranger who had lately ridden in to the wagon yard standing behind Mr. McMurdo. He was a handsome man, but Joy knew better than to expect his insides to match his outsides. She inclined her head slightly, feeling it was only her Christian duty to acknowledge his presence, but unsure how to greet so obviously wicked a man. Joy could tell. He was simply one more example of the revolting, depraved men who wandered around in this part of the world, and he made her want to hug herself to ward off the strange sensations his presence evoked within her.

  The visitor tipped his hat.

  Although Joy would never, ever, in her wildest fits of discontent, say such a thing aloud, she thought Mr. McMurdo was right about the saving of souls. She’d often wondered, since she’d been abandoned in Rio Hondo, why Mr. Thrash hadn’t chosen to spread the word out here, in this wretched territory. The awful, violent men who lived here could benefit from a taste of the Word of God as much as—perhaps more than—any heathen Indian.

  “This here’s Mr. Elijah Perry, m’dear.”

  Joy nodded again. She hated it when Mr. McMurdo called her “my dear” in that wretched Scottish accent of his. He sounded so sly and amused. There wasn’t a single thing about this place that amused Joy.

  Both men stared at her as if waiting for her to do something. Because she was her mother’s daughter and would never do anything to which her mother might object—not even be rude to unknown sinners—she gave the stranger one more stiff nod and said, “How do you do?”

  The horrid man grinned at her, as if he found her amusing, just as Mr. McMurdo did. “How-do, ma’am?”

  Joy hated being the object of others’ entertainment.

  Twinkling in a most unsuitable manner, Mr. McMurdo then went on to say, “Mr. Perry, please allow me to introduce you to Miss Joy Hardesty.”

  “Miss Hardesty.”

  Mr. Elijah Perry’s dark eyes seemed to rake her up and down. Joy felt the heat in her cheeks deepen. Why, the man was looking at her as if she were no better than those awful women at the Pecos Saloon! She felt as though she were being stripped naked by his eyes. The lecherous fiend! And Mr. McMurdo, of course, made not the slightest effort to stop him.

  Well, she wouldn’t let this place or these men get to her. Joy was a proper lady, and a Christian, and she knew this was a tribulation visited upon her by a Divine Providence to test the nature of her character and moral fiber.

  She dropped a curtsy as stiff as she was. “You have a fine name, Mr. Perry.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hardesty.”

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, sir.” It wasn’t true, but Joy knew that lies in pursuit of graciousness could be forgiven. Her mother had told her so, and her mother had been a saint. Everyone said so.

  “Are you really? You astonish me.”

  Joy popped up from her curtsy as if she’d been goosed. She guessed the bitter twist on Elijah Perry’s mouth was supposed to be a smile. Mr. McMurdo’s grin was unmistakable. She sniffed to show them both that, while she was willing to be polite, she was above them, by virtue of morality if nothing more.

  “Will you please fetch Mr. Perry some stew and cornbread, Joy? I’ll be in the back room, gettin’ him a glass of beer.”

  “Certainly.” She turned to do Mr. McMurdo’s bidding.

  Joy wondered if she should say something about the iniquity of drinking. Her mother would have told her this was a golden opportunity, provided by the Heavenly Father, for her to prove her worth as a crusader and a missionary.

  She should offer these hardened, dissolute men a brief, kind lecture about the evils of alcoholic spirits. In truth, it was her duty to do so. Joy’s mother wouldn’t have shirked the task, no matter how unreceptive her audience was certain to be. Joy’s mother was willing to lecture anybody about anything. After all, she’d known best.

  Joy’s heart was aching, though, and her eyes burned with unshed tears, and her head hurt, and her stomach churned, and the pain in her chest throbbed so hard she could barely walk, much less talk, and she didn’t say a word. Some missionary she was.

  She could feel Mr. McMurdo and Mr. Perry silently mocking her behind her back. Melanch
olia. The word taunted her.

  It’s melancholia troubling you, Joy. Melancholia is a disease of the spirit fostered by human vanity and fanned by the devil, and you must pray to rid yourself of it.

  Yes, mother.

  The ancient conversation followed Joy into the kitchen, and echoed in her brain until she wanted clap her hands over her ears and scream to drown it out.

  There was no reason these men’s opinions should matter to her. They were sinners. Their view of her shouldn’t matter anymore than a gentle stirring borne to her upon the breeze—not that there was such a thing in this miserable place. The wind blew a gale every single day, and there wasn’t anything gentle within a thousand miles.

  Oh, how she missed Auburn! How she missed the lush green of her Massachusetts home. How she missed Mr. Thrash. How she deplored her own weakness of body, mind, and soul. If only she’d remained healthy, she might be with Mr. Thrash now, in the jungles of deepest Mexico, saving the souls of those poor savages who’d never had the opportunity to hear God’s message before.

  But no. Her melancholia had conquered her best intentions and made her succumb to the influenza.

  The road to hell is paved with good intentions, Joy.

  Yes, mother.

  Joy shook her head and frowned as she dipped out a hearty portion of the stew. There was the difference in a nut shell, she decided. Unlike the men residing in and around Rio Hondo, those poor South-American natives hadn’t been given the opportunity to better themselves. Mr. Thrash was going to give it to them.

  These men—Alexander McMurdo and Elijah Perry—had heard God’s message and chosen to ignore it. That was why they seemed so much worse to Joy than those poor benighted savages in the jungle.

  Feeling martyred, Joy bore Mr. Perry’s stew and cornbread to him on a tray. Mr. McMurdo had a table set up beside the pot-bellied stove in a corner of his mercantile where travelers could eat in any weather. The stove was cold today, since the weather had turned unseasonably warm. Elijah Perry lounged in front of it, looking out of place. It was the first time Joy had felt anything at all akin to him—and she didn’t feel much then. Joy was out of place, too, but not for the same reasons.

  “Here you are, Mr. Perry.” She balanced the tray in one hand and picked up his bowl of stew with the other, preparing to set it down in front of him.

  “Allow me, Miss Hardesty.”

  Joy didn’t like it when Mr. Perry took the tray from her and held it politely so she could remove his cornbread, dining utensils, and a napkin. She said, “Thank you,” in a stifled voice because she knew she should. She didn’t want to thank him for anything.

  “You’re quite welcome.” His own voice was deep and dark and rich, and hinted of southern evenings and smooth whiskey. Not that Joy would know anything about whiskey, smooth or otherwise.

  Because she was uncomfortable, she lifted her chin. She found herself unable to look Mr. Perry in the eye, but directed her glance over his left shoulder. “If you need anything else, please let me know. I shall be working on Mr. McMurdo’s books at the counter.”

  He inclined his head in the manner of a gentleman. “Thank you, Miss Hardesty. I’ll bear it in mind, should I need anything.”

  Whatever that meant. He grinned devilishly, and his words sounded provocative, although Joy couldn’t imagine why. She snatched the tray from his hands and marched back to the counter.

  She didn’t look at Elijah Perry again until she’d carried the tray to the kitchen, retrieved Mac’s big ledger book and a box full of receipts, and dragged a high stool up to the mercantile counter. She sat on business side of the counter, away from the floor of the mercantile, because she preferred having several feet of hard wood between her and the rest of this hostile territorial world. She’d rather have the continent between them but settled for what she could get.

  Once she’d arranged herself on the stool she dove into her work, intending to ignore Mr. Perry. Against her will, her attention wavered, her pencil stilled, and her gaze stole over to him. Mr. McMurdo, she noted with displeasure, had brought Mr. Perry a mug of the devil’s brew.

  She’d never seen anyone take over a room with less effort than Mr. Elijah Perry did. In fact, he wasn’t doing a thing except eating his stew, but his presence overwhelmed the small store. There was an almost unnatural stillness about the man; yet Joy sensed tension in him, as if he were a tightly wound spring that could explode into action any second. Mr. Hezekiah P. Thrash could take lessons from Mr. Elijah Perry when it came to capturing a congregation’s attention.

  On that thought, which she knew to be scandalous, Joy frowned, tore her gaze away from Mr. Perry, and directed it at the open ledger in front of her. As if the godly Hezekiah Thrash could benefit from a single thing learned from that dreadful sinner, Elijah Perry.

  Joy was tapping the end of her pencil against her nose, staring off into space, and contemplating the nature of evil when Elijah Perry looked up from his stew bowl. The movement drew her attention, and she turned to find him grinning at her.

  “Lost in thought, Miss Hardesty?”

  She frowned back. “Yes. Is there something I can do for you?”

  He held up his bowl. Schooling his handsome face into a pleading expression that would have done credit to a scrubby schoolboy, he said, “May I please have more, ma’am? This is right good stuff.”

  With a sniff to show him that she wasn’t fooled by his pleasant demeanor, that she was made of impermeable rectitude and couldn’t be beguiled by mere human fleshpots, Joy slid from her stool and went to get his bowl. “Of course, Mr. Perry.”

  “Thank you kindly, ma’am.”

  He sounded intolerably meek and ever so polite. It was an act; Joy knew it. It was an act designed to catch people off guard and make them think there was some good in Elijah Perry. Joy knew better. Elijah Perry was a bad man, and there was no wrapping him up in clean linen or making anything else out of him. She thought Satan himself might have sounded thus when tempting Judas Iscariot into betraying our Lord.

  Then she remembered that it wasn’t her place to judge her fellow man.

  Then she reminded herself that the only way a person had to ascertain the merits of his fellow beings on earth was by his actions—and Mr. Elijah Perry’s actions proclaimed him to be a sinner.

  Choose your company carefully, Joy Hardesty. Don’t consort with the worldly. Your nature is too weak to withstand temptation.

  Yes mother.

  Bearing her mother’s admonition in mind, and determined not to allow her weak nature to succumb to worldly lures, Joy was filled with righteousness and holy virtue when she bore Elijah’s second bowl of stew out to him.

  Another thought kept her visage grim. She didn’t hold with giving people food without them paying for it. She knew, because her mother had told her so, that giving people things only taught them that idleness paid. But Mr. McMurdo had laughed when she’d told him the same thing. He’d said a nickel was plenty, and no man could eat more than a nickel’s worth of his stew, no matter how many times she refilled his bowl.

  She didn’t understand his reasoning—after all, he put lots of meat in his stew—but she did as he’d bidden her. Her mother would have been able to come up with an argument that would have persuaded Mr. McMurdo of the faultiness of his reasoning, but Joy, unfortunately, was nothing like her mother. It was her primary failing in a life fraught with failings.

  Holding her back as straight as a stick—not a difficult proposition given the tightness of her corset stays—she set the bowl in front of Mr. Perry in a manner calculated to let him know what she thought of him. And second helpings.

  “Here’s your second bowl of stew, Mr. Perry.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hardesty.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Perry.”

  “It’s very good stew. Did you make it, Miss Hardesty?”

  “No, sir. Mr. McMurdo made it.”

  He looked up at her, a teasing expression on his face. “Think I’ll qui
t while I’m ahead.”

  Joy frowned at him. Although she wrinkled her brow and thought and thought, she had no idea what he’d meant by that.

  Chapter Two

  Elijah sat back, sighed, and only refrained from patting his belly because he was a grown man and knew the habit to be childish. McMurdo’s stew could almost reconcile a fellow to banishment in this godforsaken territory.

  Perhaps not entirely godforsaken. He glanced in Joy Hardesty’s direction and decided if that was godliness, he’d just as soon skip it. She sat hunched over a big ledger book behind the counter of the mercantile, and glared at the page upon which she worked as if she bore it a personal grudge. She looked like a missionary, all right—all vinegar and prudishness and austerity. Elijah couldn’t understand what some females found so distasteful about human nature, but that one looked like she’d rather beat it off with a stick than succumb to anything human—or natural.

  Not that he cared for human nature much himself, but at least he had some fairly good reasons from which he’d forged his opinion. He’d bet any amount of money that Joy Hardesty had never seen so much as a small glimpse of the horrors men could perpetrate on each other.

  He wondered how old she was, and wagered with himself on the answer. Twenty-five. He’d have to ask McMurdo.

  He pushed his chair back until it was balanced on its rear two legs, and propped himself against the wall while he studied Joy Hardesty some more. Taking critical stock of her features, he guessed she wasn’t really ugly—except for the expression on her face, which was ugly as sin. He grinned because the metaphor struck him as comically incongruous. A missionary lady who was as ugly as sin; ha! Sometimes Elijah was so damned clever, he amazed himself.

  Her hair was brown. There was no way to tell if it was plain old brown-brown or if it had any interesting highlights, because there wasn’t enough light in the room by which to study it. Besides, she had it braided into two skinny whips that were coiled up as tight as she was. She’d wrapped them around her head and pinned them down. Elijah bet they wouldn’t dare try to get out of those pins if they knew what was good for them. From what he could see, there wasn’t anything about Joy Hardesty that wasn’t coiled up tight.