Free Lisa Plumley by The Honor-Bound Gambler Page B

hand. Absently, Violet watched it.
    A fat wad of rolled-up currency landed in the basket.
    Startled, Violet stared at it. That was a great deal of money! Even if all the bills beneath the top one were the lowest possible denomination, there had to be...a lot of cash there.
    Aching to know who was so generous, Violet nonetheless kept her gaze lowered. She strived to remain neutral to the offerings her friends and neighbors made to the church. Everyone gave what they could; sometimes people took help when they needed to.
    But this was beyond unusual. Only a lucky gold miner, a railroad magnate or maybe a touring European could afford to give so much to a Sunday collection plate. It was unprecedented.
    Interestedly, Violet let her gaze roam down the pew. Near the far edge where the basket was, she glimpsed quality shoes, a pair of strong legs clad in gray trousers, two masculine hands—
    The people on either side of the mysterious donor gasped. Loudly. As one, the whole congregation turned to see what the fuss was about. Caught staring, Violet felt herself flush.
    The basket moved on. Throughout the small church, the congregants’ rumblings rose a little higher. More people spied the wad of cash in the basket. Each row of worshippers swiveled their heads in turn, trying to glimpse the charitable benefactor in their midst. Her father cleared his throat, then preached on.
    Steadfastly, Violet collected the basket at the end of its rounds. The unknown donor’s contribution appeared to have kicked up some sense of competitive giving among the congregants. There were more coins and bills than ever before—and one small but valuable gold-dust packet, as well. It smelled like whiskey.
    Happy for it all the same, Violet carried the collection to her father’s modest office. Located in a small room behind the chancel, it contained a rolltop desk for Papa’s books, papers and the church register, a well-worn chair, a window, a seldom-used door that led to the churchyard and a reliable safe. In the West, even a man of God couldn’t be too careful with money.
    Crouching before the safe, Violet made fast work of depositing the collection funds. Ordinarily she would have sorted them. Today she felt much too curious about the identity of the mysterious donor to be too persnickety about organizing the money. Instead, she shoved the whole lot inside, then clanged shut the safe’s door. She gave the dial a hasty spin.
    “You missed your calling. You should have been a gambler.”
    At the sound of that familiar voice, Violet started. She rose, her green worsted skirts swirling around her ankles, to see Cade Foster standing there in her father’s office. He looked exactly as handsome—and as darkly enigmatic—as she remembered.
    “When I dropped my latest bundle of winnings in your basket, everyone around me gasped,” Cade said. “But you didn’t even bat an eyelash. I’m impressed—you have quite a poker face.”
    “That’s not what you said the other day,” she disagreed. “You said my emotions are unusually evident on my face.”
    “That’s true.” He came a little closer. “I did say that.”
    At his nearness, her heartbeat surged. Breathlessly, Violet stood her ground, feeling suddenly impatient and exhilarated and anxious, all at once. She’d thought she might never see Cade again, she realized. She’d thought her turn as belle of the ball might end as quickly as it had begun. Evidently, she’d been wrong. She’d never felt so happy to be wrong about something.
    She ought to be more cautious this time, though. It had shaken her when Cade had skedaddled from her house so abruptly.
    To that end, Violet lifted her chin, striving to sound as though she bantered on a regular basis with worldly, roguish gamblers like him. “You also said that was a compliment.”
    “It was.” Cade peered at her more carefully. His expression looked unreadable. “But I reserve the right to change my mind.”
    She couldn’t help