A drop of sweat tried to tickle its way into Dray Sloane’s left eye, but she blinked just in time. Holding her cards with both hands, she brought them to her chest and wiped the sweat from her brow with her upper arm.

This time she had it! And she hadn’t cheated. A true blue royal flush.

Almost...

At this point it was dead. Four cards straight, ten through King, all in spades. Just one card shy of making her the richest woman at the table... probably in the whole damn town.

With a deep breath, she scanned past Caleb Washbrooke, the idiot she played against, and reminded herself that she didn’t have a nickel to throw on the table. She glanced up at Wells as he set a shot of whisky beside her.

"Don’t even ask," he said with a scowl. "You already owe me a hundred and fifty, Dray. And unless you’re willing to take it out in trade, I ain’t lendin’ you a shoulder to cry on."

"Take it out in trade..." She blew her dark bangs out of her eyes. "You wouldn’t know what to do with me."

Across from her, Caleb elbowed the empty chair beside himself and grinned. "That’s a good one. Hey, Pa?"

Holy bliss! How’d she get stuck playing one on one with the king of dimwits? And worse, how could she be losing?

"Stop talkin’ to your dead pa, Caleb, and play the damn game," she said.

Caleb sobered. "He ain’t dead."

"Hell if he ain’t..."

Jake Washbrooke had been dead for nearly a decade. Apparently, his son hadn’t noticed. Irritated, Dray bit the inside of her cheek. She’d shoot herself in the head before folding only one card short of a royal. Holy bliss! She’d have to be as numb-brained as Caleb to do such a thing.

Desperate, she scanned the nameless faces surrounding the table. She’d seen them all during countless games in the past, but never cared much to know them beyond that. She could tell by their tobacco-wrinkled smirks that not one would wager for her.

"We’re waitin’," Wells said, nudging her shoulder.

"And I’m thinkin’," Dray snapped. "Hold up a minute."

"Dray?" Caleb said, in a hollow, meek voice. "Pa says that maybe you outta just fold. He says everybody knows you ain’t got no money left."

Deliberately, she lifted her gaze. "You tell your pa that when he stops wearin’ your ma’s dresses he can give me advice at the tables."

Wells elbowed her. "Be nice."

But Caleb had already lurched to his feet. "Pa don’t wear no dresses!"

"We know that," Wells said gently. "She’s just tryin’ to rile you."

Huffing, Caleb lowered himself again. "Well, he don’t."

Dray glanced at her hand. She couldn’t very well sit here forever. She pursed her lips. It looked like this would be her last hand of cards in Wells Cove. No matter. She’d been here too long, anyhow.

"Are you in or out?" Wells asked, poking her shoulder.

"You touch me again and I’ll break your fingers." She continued to glare at her cards. "And I’m in."

"You’re in..."

"I just haven’t decided what I’m betting, is all."

A few patrons laughed, but Dray didn’t bother to seek them out. She was too busy scowling at her own stupidity. She’d just revealed that Calab Washbrooke, a thirty-year-old-child who ate tree bark, counted clouds, and talked to the dead, was about to beat her at the one and only thing she was good at.

She’d been itching to palm the spare ace inside her shirt, but Wells’ beady eyes hadn’t left her hands. Now her options had run out.

"How about this?" Wells suggested quietly.

Dray tilted her head back to see him. "What?" But she should’ve known by the sparkle in his eyes that he was up to no good.

"I’m thinking," he said, "that you have something Caleb may need."

"What do I need?" Caleb asked skeptically.

Wells paused and squeezed Dray’s shoulder. "A wife."

Dray bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Bet herself? Hell, yes, she’d put herself up. Refraining from chortling aloud, she raised her brows and waited for Caleb’s response. What kind of fools were they to think she’d stay true to such a wager? She was Dray Sloane, not a priest.

"What do you say, Dray?" Wells asked.

Feigning deep thought, she frowned. The word "absolutely" danced on her tongue.