The Wrangler Read Online Free

pink petticoat sat down in front of an upright piano, her ample cleavage spilling out of a laced-up black corset. There were maybe a dozen or more tables, all filled with games in progress.
    In the far corner, men argued over a pot. One man stood up, shook his fist at another player across the table. His face glowed beet red. His familiar face. It was Tannen Sinclair, her neighbor.
    It would be good to stay away from him if she could. Kit took another sip of her drink. Her fake mustache tickled.
    "Howdy, there." A young man about her age plopped onto the neighboring stool. "I hear you're Hubert's brother."
    "News travels fast." She eyed the newcomer. Medium height, lean, very tidy. His blue muslin shirt was perfectly pressed down to the creases in his sleeves. "I'm Howie."
    "Dewayne." He took off his hat to reveal more curls. "Bet you came out to take care of the kids. Poor things, being left like that. And that fire—I hear they barely made it out of the house alive."
    "It was tough for them," she choked out. That hellish night still haunted her dreams. They'd worked feverishly trying to get their things out of the house before the flames drove them out.
    "It's good of you to come help. Were you and Hubert close?"
    "Sometimes." Her voice quivered. She remembered to lower it. So far, her disguise was holding up. That was good, but she hadn't come here to chat.
    "Nice meeting you." She hopped off her stool, bottle in hand as a fight broke out in the corner. A chair sailed over a table and crashed on the floor. Men surged to their feet, punches flew and blood spattered. A gunshot echoed and a bullet zinged into the ceiling.
    "Next time I won't miss," Tannen growled, his Peacemaker smoking. "You slipped a queen of hearts out of your sleeve. I saw it."
    "Hey, I'm innocent." The accused party, an unshaven cowboy in chaps and spurs, swiped blood from his nose. "It was a mistake."
    "Check up his sleeves and see," Tannen demanded of his fellow players.
    Best to avoid that table. Join it only as a last resort. Not all the poker games looked rough. Take the table of old men, for instance. Really old men, she noticed, once she took a careful look. Withered, wrinkled, jowls sagging. Talking slow and careful, whistling any S's through gaps of missing teeth.
    "I'll raise you a penny," one old guy said with a wink.
    Nope, those stakes were too low. Best to move onto the next table. She spied younger men seated at the next one over, maybe in their twenties. Now, that was more like it. Piles of coins glinted on the center of their table like a little mountain of silver...mostly nickels and dimes.
    No, she shook her head, still too small. Well, that was disappointing. Her winnings there might help with the groceries for the week, but wouldn't fund the longer range portions of her grand plan.
    There had to be a game in here that would work. She took another sip, resisted the urge to itch her scratching fake mustache and squared her shoulders. She eyed a table near the front window where middle-aged men played a friendly game and headed their way, using her best manly swagger.
    The batwing doors chose that moment to swing open. A tall man with mile-wide shoulders and a masculine presence strode in, dark against the background of sky and setting sun. The tilt of his black Stetson was commanding, the strike of his boots ominous. The blood drained from her veins. She didn't need to see his face to recognize the man.
    Dakota Black ambled into the dim lantern light, his iron-jaw set, his rugged face as hard as carved granite. A trickle of fear winged into her chest, fluttering behind her heart even though she knew he wasn't dangerous.
    Well, not dangerous to her.
    He surveyed the room with one long, cold scan, stopped when he spotted her. A trace of a grin hooked one corner of his chiseled mouth. He said nothing as he passed her by on his way to the bar.
    Of all the men in the territory who could walk into this saloon, why did it have to be him?
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