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hand it concealed. "I beg your pardon." He leaned closer. "I'm not certain I heard correctly—"
    "Coyote Matt! Yep, I trapped a passel of them critters in my day. More'n four thousand, I reckon. Don't s'pose they got coyotes in England."
    "I'm not an authority, but no, I don't believe there are any coyotes in England." A wry smile flickered over Geoff's mouth.
    "You got poker over there?"
    His brows lifted slightly. "After a fashion."
    "How 'bout a couple hands? Fancy dude like you could prob'ly win a lotta money from a scroungy coyote killer like me."
    Coyote Matt's voice was so raspy that it was difficult for Geoff to make out exactly what was being said. "Sir, I suspect that you are trying to draw me into a game of chance because you believe you would be the winner, which might well be the case. In truth, I cannot afford the time, having just arrived in Cody—but I am willing to give you a half hour in the interest of cultivating good will among the townspeople. You see," Geoff explained, glancing back at Tom Purcell and then over the crowded tables of the saloon, "I intend to remain here for some time."
    "Yahoo!" shouted Coyote Matt. "Cut the cards, Ben! I got me a game!"
    * * *
    "What extraordinary good fortune," Geoff remarked with convincing surprise as he glanced down at the winnings stacked on the table before him.
    Ben kicked Shelby's shin and she flinched. "Maybe you lost enough, Coyote Matt," he said in menacing tones.
    "It's my deal," she replied, nearly forgetting to lower her voice. It was beginning to hurt her throat, talking like that, and the clouds of smoke in the saloon didn't help any. "You in, Ben? Titus?"
    They both shook their heads, and Shelby stubbornly dealt the cards for five-card stud to herself and the Englishman. It had to be pure luck, him winning nearly all the five hundred dollars she'd brought for this occasion. They didn't have real games like poker in England. Shelby had read her share of Jane Austen novels, and in them the only card games were faro and whist. Certainly not poker! One more hand, she told herself, and the tide would turn in her favor, and then she would win it all back and then some!
    Shelby looked at her cards and discovered that she was holding a pair of nines. They had each put in an opening bet of fifty dollars, and now she felt even more hopeful. Watching her pigeon, who had begun to appear more hawk-like as the game progressed, Shelby saw that he had discarded only two. She frowned and dealt him replacement cards, pretending to turn her attention back to her own hand but in fact studying his expression under her thick lashes. There could be no mistake to the practiced eye of a girl who had grown up in Deadwood, where gambling was the favorite sport: this fancy Weston character had definitely looked relieved when he saw his cards. At the very least, he must have three of a kind!
    Shelby pondered her own pair of nines, discarded three, took three, and found that she had an even worse assortment than before. "It's your bet, sport," she said in her best casual cowboy voice.
    Geoff nodded slowly, sipped his whiskey, and added two twenty-dollar bills to the pot.
    Clenching her teeth with fear, Shelby capitulated and tossed down her cards. "I fold."
    "Do you indeed? What a relief. I only had a pair of threes, but I felt I ought to give you a chance to win back a little of your money...." He shrugged. "Sorry."
    Shelby began to tremble. How could this be happening? Now Ben's big hand disappeared under the table and found her thigh, squeezing right through the chaps until her eyes watered.
    "Time to go home," he growled.
    "One more hand," she said gruffly, and gave the cards to her opponent. "Your deal, Weston."
    The fifty dollars that Shelby placed on the table was the last of the money she had... and also represented a large portion of the funds her father had given her to keep in reserve. If she lost it all, not only couldn't they buy farming equipment and more horses, but