Gambler's Magic Page 8

  “Do they really? I never thought novels had so much power. I’ll respect ‘em more now that I know.”

  Joy eyed him hard. “I don’t believe sloth and indolence are characteristics for which one should strive, Mr. Perry.”

  “Balderdash. I’ve never once been slothful or indolent because of a novel, Miss Hardesty.”

  This time it was Joy who lifted one eyebrow. She was fairly certain her own expression didn’t come near to matching his for irony, but she did her best.

  He grinned. “It’s true. I was indolent and slothful before I ever read a novel.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “Novels are entertaining. Don’t you ever feel the need to relax and stop working for a second or two?”

  Yes. As a matter of fact, Joy felt such needs often. Now, for instance. Her limited energy was one of her many weaknesses.

  Inertia. Your middle name should have been Inertia, Joy Hardesty.

  “I try very hard not to succumb to such impulses, Mr. Perry,” she said grimly.

  “Oh, come on now. You can’t work all the time. Everybody needs to rest every now and then.”

  “That’s what prayer is for.” Joy hated it when she sounded self-righteous, but she did then.

  “Listen, Miss Hardesty, even the good Lord advised relaxing every now and then.”

  She scowled at him. “And how would you know?” She sounded nasty, and was ashamed of herself. She’d never let him know it.

  “I know more than you give me credit for, Miss Holier-Than-Thou Hardesty,” Elijah said with some asperity. “For instance, just take a gander at the Forty-seventh Psalm: ‘O clap your hands, all ye people; shout unto God with the voice of triumph.’ That doesn’t sound to me like God expects us to do nothing but work and pray. It sounds to me as if he expects us to have some fun every now and then, too.”

  Joy realized her mouth had dropped open, so she shut it again and hoped Mr. Perry hadn’t noticed. Good heavens, was he a mind-reader as well as an unprincipled gambler? “How do you know that Psalm?” she asked sharply.

  “I told you. I know more than you think I do.” He looked smug.

  “Hmph.” Annoyed, she tucked a cloth in at the neck of his nightshirt and spread it over his chest. Although she tried very hard to be gentle, he grunted when she smoothed it over his bandaged side. She would have apologized if he weren’t such an exasperating man.

  Because she was unsettled by his uncanny recitation of the very verses she’d been thinking herself, Joy said astringently, “‘In all labor there is profit: but the talk of the lips tendeth only to penury.’ Proverbs 14:23.”

  Elijah clamped his chin down on the cloth where it had puffed up against his face. “Oh, yeah? Well, what about Psalm 104, Miss Joy Hardesty? ‘Man goeth forth unto his work and to his labor until the evening.’ Did you hear that? ‘Until the evening.’ Not every second of every day. Even God rested on the seventh day, for Pete’s sake.”

  “He didn’t gamble during the rest of His days,” Joy snapped. “He was doing something useful.”

  “Creating this blasted vale of tears and the people who clutter it up. Is that such a great thing?”

  She looked up at him, stunned. She’d never heard such blasphemy. “Man is God’s greatest creation, Mr. Perry. How dare you slander His work?”

  “His greatest creation? Cripes, lady, it seems to me that it’s all the earth can do to withstand the abominations man perpetrates on it. And each other. Have you ever seen the coal pits back east? Or the slums in New York or Boston? Or the slaves’ quarters on a Maryland plantation? Or are you going to try to tell me black men aren’t human beings?”

  “Of course I’m not. I have every admiration for the abolitionists who worked to free the poor creatures before the war began.”

  “I’ll just bet you have.” He glared at her before she could take him to task for betting again.

  “Well, I do.”

  “From your safe little hidey-hole in Boston, I presume.”

  “My family lived in Auburn, Mr. Perry.”

  “Either way, a lot you know about it. It’s easy to read about things. It’s a whole lot harder when you see them. And I defy you to give me a sound reason why any merciful God in His right mind would have allowed people to come up with the institution of slavery.”

  “Don’t you go putting the sins of the wicked upon the good Lord’s shoulders, Mr. Perry.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Hardesty. Nor would I dream of condemning the good Lord for having made man by calling us His greatest creation.”

  “He made man in His own image!” Joy cried, mortally offended.

  “I’ll believe that when I see Him.”

  “I doubt it will ever come to that.”

  He flashed her a sudden grin, and she felt a lick of pride. She wasn’t usually so witty. Perhaps sparring with Mr. Perry was quickening her wits.

  “I still don’t believe He made us in His image, Miss Hardesty.”

  She sniffed. “Well, He did.”

  “Prove it.”

  “The Bible says so.”

  “The Bible’s been translated a million times. Who are you to say all of those translators got it right?”

  Joy huffed and turned away. Jerusalem, she hated it when people offered her arguments she had no answers for. Her mother used to have an answer for everything. If only Joy thought as quickly as her mother used to do all the time instead of every now and then. But no; her own mind worked sluggishly most of the time, and it dwelled on unimportant matters. For instance, at the moment it was silently agreeing with Mr. Perry’s foul assertions when she knew it shouldn’t be. Joy couldn’t think of a suitable argument to save herself.

  She hated it when that happened. Her failure to argue effectively not only weakened her position, but it pointed out the peril in which her own faith lay. If she were a truly sound Christian, she should be able to whip out proof after proof in rebuttal to anything a trespasser against His Word might say to her. Her inability to do so made her very cranky.

  “And anyway, what do you expect a body to do? Create worlds every day? For Pete’s sake, I’m not God.”

  Joy gave a meaningful sniff.

  “Yeah, I know. You’ve already consigned me to the fires of hell.”

  “It’s not my job to do that, Mr. Perry, but I’m sure you know your worth better than I.” That was pretty good, and she felt somewhat better about herself.

  “Horse feathers. You had me tried, convicted, and damned to the pit before you even knew my name. Tell me you didn’t, and you’ll be lying.”

  Fiddlesticks! He’d done it again. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say to him—because he was right. It was excessively annoying to be thwarted by the truth in this way. Her mother had never let the truth stand in her way. Her mother had been above logic as other people were above the law. Joy envied her that.

  She stopped in the act of carrying a basin of water to the bedside table, her prior reflection having sounded wrong somehow. She tried to fix it, but it wouldn’t be fixed. Well, rubbish. She’d have to examine it later, when she wasn’t so harassed. She set the water down and turned to fetch the shaving things.

  “Leaving aside your penchant to damn everybody to the pit whether you know them or not, it all boils down to this, Miss Hardesty. Everyone works at his own job.” Elijah gave her a sniff of his own. “I’m a gambling man. So what? It’s honest work.”

  Joy gave him a look, which she hoped was as skeptical as she felt, glad he’d directed the conversation back to a path with which she was familiar. “Honest work, my eye. Fleecing innocents is about as dishonest an occupation as any I’ve ever heard of.” She set the shaving things down, bumping the basin and splashing some water out onto the table. Annoyed, she retreated to the bureau to fetch another towel.

  “If you were a man, I’d punch you in the jaw for saying that, ma’am. I’ll have you know, I’m the most honest gambler I know. I’ve never fleeced an hon
est soul in my life. Poker requires skill and patience, and I have both. I’ve worked damned hard, and I’m the best there is.”

  He sounded honestly incensed. Joy could hardly believe her ears. She’d never heard anyone try to justify gaming before. The people she’d known before coming to the territory had all deplored the activity as much as she did. “If you’re so skillful, why don’t you apply your talents to something worthwhile?”

  “It is worthwhile. It buys my bread, dammit, and it’s allowed me to put money in the bank.”

  Joy scrubbed up the spilled water, wishing she could be scrubbing Mr. Elijah Perry’s tongue with soap and water as her mother used to do to hers. A little home therapy might be good for him. “There you go, blaspheming again. Gambling is a sinful occupation. Calling it your job doesn’t make it any less so, if you ask me.”

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  “You didn’t dare because you know I’m right.”

  “Folderol.”

  He eyed her keenly as she dipped the shaving brush in water and then whipped the shaving cream with it. It didn’t look to Joy as if he were very happy about her being the one to shave him. Good. She hoped he’d worry so much that he’d be nice to her. It was exhausting, having to quarrel with him about everything.

  It seemed that their argument had worn him out, too. He lay back on the bed with his eyes closed. His skin was as pasty as her own, and he looked mortally sick. Joy felt a tiny pang of compunction for having bickered with him. She never could tell where to draw the line; whether to point out to people the error of their ways or to turn the other cheek and leave them be. Her mother, needless to say, always knew.

  “Are you sure you’re up to being shaved, Mr. Perry? Perhaps you should rest a little first.”

  “No. I want to get this stubble off. It’s driving me crazy.”

  Joy refrained from uttering the brilliant rejoinder that immediately sprang to her mind, and felt somewhat better about herself. “I’ll have to help you to sit up. I can’t shave you very well when you’re lying down.”

  He cracked his eyes opened and looked unhappy. After heaving a soft sigh, he said, “All right. Try to have some mercy on me even though I’m a sinner and you hate my guts, all right?”

  “I don’t hate your guts,” she said, shocked into speaking before she thought. For heaven’s sake, she was a Christian lady, and therefore filled with charity and love for all her fellow man, no matter how vile they were. Wasn’t she?

  “You could have fooled me.” He shut his eyes again and seemed to be gathering his strength for the coming ordeal.

  His words stung Joy. She didn’t know why they should, either, because it was of no consequence to her whether or not the wicked man considered her hateful. Except that she didn’t mean to be hateful. What she meant to be was helpful, and at the same time, to point out the error of his ways. It was so frustrating not to be able to get it right. She just never got anything right.

  In a voice tight with mental chaos, she said, “Tell me when you’re ready, please, and I’ll help you to sit up.”

  After another moment, during which she wondered if he’d dropped off to sleep, or into unconsciousness, he muttered, “I guess I’m ready.”

  “All right. I’ll support your shoulders and you scoot yourself back against the headboard. I’ll try to adjust the pillows as we work together.” Reluctantly, she added, “I shall try very hard not to hurt you.”

  “Thank you.”

  She couldn’t tell if his thanks were meant sarcastically. She suspected they were.

  By the time she’d assisted him to sit up and plumped the pillows at his back, both Elijah and Joy were trembling, Elijah with pain and exhaustion, and Joy from the horror of having had to hurt him so badly. She truly hated hurting people, even when she had to do it in order to be of ultimate benefit to them, as in this case.

  She even had tears in her eyes when she turned away from him and grabbed a small towel. Her hands shook. Her mother would have been disgusted with her. For only a second, Joy succumbed to her shredded nerves and sank her face into the softness of the towel. She never would have done such a lily-livered thing if she’d known Mr. Perry had opened his eyes.

  “Are you crying?”

  She jumped a foot and swirled around, yanking the towel from her face. “Of course not!”

  “I’m all right, Miss Hardesty. Honest, I am. You didn’t hurt me.” His face was as pale as a shroud and drawn with pain, but his voice carried tenderness amazing in one so lost to goodness as he.

  Joy didn’t understand why he was being nice to her. She turned around again, because she didn’t want him to see the tears his assurance had brought to her eyes. “Good.” She would have said more, but didn’t want him to hear her voice wobble.

  Forcing her hands not to shake, she dipped the towel into the basin and squeezed it out. The water wasn’t very hot, but one had to make do in cases like this. She concentrated on the duty before her and tried to forget how lifeless Mr. Perry’s body had felt, how terribly wounded he was, how manfully he’d tried to help her help him, and how bravely he’d fought his pain. He was a wicked sinner. He wasn’t supposed to exhibit any nobility of character.

  Joy hated contradictions. She was confused enough already about Elijah Perry. She didn’t need to have him to go and act all noble on her.

  She heard him breathing heavily, as if he were trying to recruit his strength after the ordeal of sitting up. She was surprised when he said, “You know, I don’t think you’re as heartless as you want people to think you are.”

  Although she hated herself for it, she audibly sniffled back her tears. “I don’t want people to think I’m heartless.” She tried to make her tone severe.

  He whispered, “Balderdash.”

  She slapped the towel over his face so he couldn’t say anything else.

  # # #

  Elijah had never been so weak in his life. He was as weak as a kitten. As limp as a stalk of new grass. As wilted as a week-old flower.

  He knew it must be his weakness that was making him reassess the sharp-tongued and self-righteous Joy Hardesty. He’d known women like her before—at least, he’d known women like he’d assumed her to be. They hated everything and took pleasure in hurting people they considered beneath them—which was, it looked to him, like everyone who didn’t belong to their own personal congregation.

  Actually, most of ‘em even liked hurting people in their own congregations. Yup. The females of Joy’s stamp he’d met up with before now had delighted in picking holes in their friends. They propped themselves up by pulling the stuffing out of other people.

  Elijah couldn’t stand people like that. He’d been positive Joy was one of them. He wasn’t so sure any longer.

  It had actually been kind of fun when they’d fought their battle of Bible verses. She’d been surprised he’d known any. Little did she know he’d been force-fed Bible verses for the first ten years of his life. And the nuns who’d been lording it over him were every bit as cruel as he’d believed she was. Crueler, even. Poor Joy. No matter how much she tried to put up a good fight, she wasn’t closed-minded enough to be a truly worthy opponent. Nor was she sure enough of her ground to make fighting with her really exhilarating.

  No, as irritating and frustrating as she was, Elijah was beginning to suspect Joy of being more misguided than steeped in false piety and sanctimony. He’d have to think about this later, when he wasn’t so tired, but he’d just about concluded that she was a fraud.

  The warm wet towel felt heavenly on his face. She’d put something in the water that smelled good and made his skin tingle. He’d have asked her what it was, but he was too enervated to speak at the moment. What with sparring with him verbally and manhandling him into an upright position, she’d managed to drain every ounce of strength out of him. If he’d had the energy, he’d have chuckled that such a tiny thing as she could have fatigued him so.

  He wasn’t sure he liked the idea of her wielding a
straight razor anywhere near him, but he had no spunk left to object to that, either. He’d just have to trust her not to slit his throat. Actually, after the last half-hour or so, he kind of did trust her. He didn’t understand his revised opinion, either.

  As she shaved him, she was so gentle that he almost fell asleep. He’d never had such a delicate shave. As soon as she’d wiped him down, dried him off, slathered some soothing creamy stuff onto his shorn cheeks, and removed the cloth she’d draped over him, he drifted off to sleep under the influence of it.

  When he awoke, the first thing he saw was Joy, sitting in the chair beside the bed, reading her Bible, her head bowed over the big book. His first reaction was pleasure that she hadn’t drawn the curtains shut again as soon as his eyes were closed. His second was that she looked appropriate that way: quiet and serene. Gentle, reading a book.

  The pose suited her. It suited her a damned sight better than the hostility and self-righteousness she projected most of the time. He wondered if she had to try to be as unpleasant as she was, then wondered why she’d want to do something so fruitless. He didn’t wonder hard, since he didn’t have the strength for it.

  Making an enormous effort, he said, “What are you reading?” and fell back against his pillow, exhausted.

  She uttered a small gasp and jumped in the chair. Elijah cocked one eye open and would have shaken his head in amazement if his head didn’t hurt so much already. “Touchy little thing, aren’t you?” His voice sounded too dry, and he wished he hadn’t said anything when her lips pruned up.

  He’d noticed as she worked on him that she wasn’t as ugly as her standoffish demeanor had at first led him to believe. In truth, she had pretty eyes, nice hair, a fair skin—although it was much too pale—and a nice generous mouth when it wasn’t all pinched up.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Perry. I didn’t know you’d awakened.”

  She sounded as stiff as a March gale, and Elijah sighed. He decided to be nice. “Thank you for taking such good care of me, Miss Hardesty.” He had to fight his impulse to add something sarcastic like I know you hate every minute of it.