The Sheriff's Last Gamble. Lauri Robinson

      Chapter One

      1886

      Dakota Territory

      “How long you gonna sit there staring at those cards, darling?”

      The endearment was meant to irritate her, but Winston Ratcliff was a sharper, a player who gave the game a bad name, and therefore he’d been on Stacy Blackwell’s nerves long before he’d opened his mouth. Blocking out his sarcastic voice, she went right on studying her cards. The odds were in her favor.…

      Know your odds, baby girl, but don’t count on them. Count on your gut, it’ll never steer you wrong. It knows more than your mind ever can. Those were Pappy’s words echoing in her mind, taught long ago on one of the many riverboats she’d grown up on, and often repeated—usually on a steamer chugging through muddy water.

      A hefty pot sat in the center of the table: gold and silver coins, paper bills, a cheap watch dropped in by Chester Marks. None of which made her question her instincts. The sapphire-studded locket Winston had placed right smack in the middle of all that money, however, had her hesitating. The long chain had coiled into a cone atop the stones and now glistened in the light cast from the wall lanterns like a pile of gold in Founder’s Creek—if there ever could be gold in a creek that was dry half the year.

      That necklace was hers, and she wanted it back. But the hard knot in her stomach said that, no matter what the odds, Winston had a better hand than her full house of aces over eights. Dagnabit! If he won this pot, he’d be able to play for hours without putting up the necklace again. She, too, could play for hours if not for Sheriff Jake McCrery. He was due back in town in less than an hour, and the first place he’d come looking for her was here, Ma Belle’s House of Worship. A completely different kind of worship than took place in the more respectable building with its towering steeple on the edge of town, but more regularly used in Founder’s Creek Township, Dakota Territory.

      “Come on, girl, we ain’t got all day,” Chester said, setting his empty mug on the table with a thud.

      Stacy flashed the farmer a glare that said exactly what she thought of him and his big toe gambling. Just because a man got an itch didn’t mean he should sit down at a table. It soured the game for those committed to gaming. Namely her.

      “What’s it gonna be, darling? You in or not?” Winston asked, lighting up another one of his long cigars and puffing up a cloud of smoke before blowing a single ring to hover right over the necklace.

      The glitter of the chain pulled at her. It was only thing she’d ever been able to hold on to. Proof she had a family—a parent, who in her own way, loved her. But she couldn’t let Winston know that. No one could ever know that. All the more reason she couldn’t let the good sheriff find her here.

      Hiding her frustration, she shot a distasteful gaze straight across the table. “I’m not your darling, Ratcliff,” she said, with enough ire to dim the triumph in his beady eyes.

      Setting her cards facedown on the table, she gathered her money, folding the bills before slipping them into the bottom of the satchel attached to her wrist. The coins went in next, all except for two gold ones. Those she’d give to Faith Hickcomb. Lord knows the girl deserved it after schlepping drinks all day and working the rooms above half the night.

      “Too rich for your blood, is it?”

      Ratcliff had won a fair bit since arriving in town, so he thought he was a master of the game. In actuality, he had a lot to learn, and someday she’d prove it to him and get her necklace back. Neither the cards nor her gut said today was the day, so she’d wait. Patience was another thing Pappy had taught her.

      Stacy retrieved her parasol from the floor near her feet and kept her eyes on Ratcliff as she pushed away from the table. “No game’s ever been too rich for my blood. Nor will it ever be.”

      Always affable, at least whenever possible, she included Chester Marks in her parting nod to the rest of the men at the table. “Gentlemen,” she said, amazed at how inappropriate a simple word could be.

      On her way across the room, she dropped the coins from her hand on the little table where Faith sat resting her feet for a moment.

      “Thank you,” the girl whispered.

      Everything in life is a gamble and no one had the right to judge another for the way they chose to play. Leastwise, that’s what Pappy had taught her. Smiling and giving Faith a wink, Stacy strolled out the hinged half doors into the bright afternoon sun.

      Parasol overhead, she set a course for the church on the edge of town, her satchel heavy on her wrist. The pot, the one she’d won before Ratcliff had dangled her necklace over the table, had been a profitable one and Father O’Reilly would appreciate the funds.

      A short time later Stacy pushed open the door to exit the church, her purse empty but her heart full. A tingling sensation stirred inside her stomach, and making no effort to hide the grin forming on her lips she sauntered down the steps toward