Deuces Wild

Deuces Wild: Stacking the Deck

by L. S. King

"Prologue"

"How did you sleep?" Gran asked, pouring coffee into a cup and sliding it across the table to Tristan.

"Sleep? With that thing snoring?" Tristan jerked his head toward the bedroom door. "And how he didn't murder his wife in his sleep with his thrashing..." Tristan shook his head and rubbed bleary eyes before reaching for the steaming cup.

Gran chuckled and turned back to the wood stove. Tristan was pleased the old woman didn't chatter on or try to ask probing questions. She seemed to understand he liked quiet and gave it to him.

A second cup of coffee and two pancakes later, Slap stumbled into the kitchen, yawning.

"Good morning," Gran chirped. "How did you sleep?"

Slap scratched his head, scowling at Tristan. "Well, I woulda slept a'right if that yahoo hadn't pulled the covers offa me and kicked me outta the bed twice."

"I was trying to wake you up to stop the snoring."

"Ya coulda just shook me."

"I could have set off an explosion and it wouldn't have awakened you." Tristan sipped the hot coffee. "And it wasn't twice I kicked you off the bed. It was five times. You never even realized it—crawled back into the bed like a zombie."

Slap snorted and dropped into a chair with a grunt. Gran set coffee in front of him.

The cowboy squinted at the plate of towering pancakes in the center of the table. "You done eating?"

Tristan nodded, cup to his lips.

With a satisfied sigh, Slap pulled the plate to him, and picked up the pitcher of syrup.

Tristan shook his head.

Halfway through the stack, Tristan was distracted from the amazing sight of Slap's gormandizing abilities by clopping sounds outside. He rose and went to the door to investigate, Gran trailing him.

Slap's father-in-law was astride that confounded horse Slap had adopted, his son following in a wagon with a passenger beside him. Of course—no modern equipment could be used in the valley; one couldn't merely rent a rover to travel out here.

"Brought a guest out, Son," Ewan called. "And thought you might like to keep Príncipe for a few days, until you leave."

"Staying for coffee?" called Gran.

Ewan shook his head as the tall, thin man alighted from the rustic conveyance, his familiar, crooked grin easing the stiffness in Tristan's spine.

"Got chores to tend," Ewan said, "but I'm certain Brìghde will insist on a visit before they leave." He and his son-in-law embraced, slapping each other on the back.

"Hello, Captain," Carter said, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I heard your ship might need an engineer."

"Not his ship anymore," Slap said as Ewan climbed into the wagon. "I own her now. But he's still captain and pilot. How ya doing, Carter?" He stepped over to Carter and pumped his hand.

"That ownership issue is a technicality," Tristan interjected, "and you know it."

Slap chuckled. "Yeah, since technically we stole her from the Mordas in the first place. But I still got a document that says I'm owner."

"Well, whoever is in charge now," Carter said, "I need work."

"Great. Come on in and we'll talk over breakfast."

Gran stuck her hands on her hips. "'Breakfast' will have to wait until I cook up more pancakes, you Scallywag."

"Sorry," Slap said, hunching his shoulders. But the smile on his face belied the sincerity of his apology. He waved to the departing wagon, then slapped Carter on the shoulder as they all walked back to the little house. "So what are you doing here anyway?"

"The captain and I have kept in touch. He asked for my help in a recent matter."

"Oh?" Slap peered sideways at Tristan, who glared as an answer.

"Yeah. And when the job I had fell through, I thought, well, it can't hurt to visit at the least, and maybe sign on if he needs me."

Carter had sidestepped right around Slap's tacit query. Nice work.

"Well, I think it's a swell idea. Don't you, Tristan?"

Whatever happened to being blessedly alone? Tristan silently mourned as he reseated himself at the table. But he had found himself surprisingly pleased that Slap wanted to come with him on Giselle. Carter's specialties might come in handy too. Tristan downed his now-cool coffee before answering. "Sounds good."

The lines in Carter's face relaxed a bit as he sat. "I'm glad to hear that. It's...hard to find work—good work—when you...don't have a background or résumé to your name."

Slap caught Tristan's eye with a knowing look. Of the three of them, the only one with a legitimate history was the cowboy.

"Well," Slap drawled, "I don't see that as a worry with us, huh, Tristan?"

Refusing to be baited, Tristan merely inclined his head.

Tristan carried the plates to the sink. Gran batted at him when he offered to do the dishes.

"The hot water makes my old hands feel better. You go on and visit. I'm certain I'll have chores for you later."

"I'm certain you will too." Unable to keep from smiling at her, Tristan left her humming at the sink and wandered outside.

Slap was racing the stallion around the property, and Carter sat on a bench in the shade by the by the house, watching. Tristan joined the engineer with a nod.

"He seems to be much better than right after Eridani. Is he all right now?"

Tristan stared hard at the cowboy. "He's...healing. I don't know what they did to him, but it left deep wounds on his soul. Whatever his alien friends did to help him, it got him past the worst of it, I think."

Carter fell silent for a time, then asked, "How soon are you leaving?"

"I'm not sure. We have several orders for cargo from the Separatists, but legitimate runs don't net the kind of money black market does."

"Well, considering there's no Mordas and no government yet, there is no black market at the moment, is there?"

Tristan snorted. "Nothing I'd touch."

"So you're waiting for more lucrative deals to drop into your lap?"

"No, actually. I've been waiting for replacements for some personal items I need. When I was brought here, injured, everything I had was...rendered ineffective."

"Ah." Carter nodded. "Your vest's toys. I heard about the strange effect this valley has on electronic equipment. I'd love to learn more about that."

His eyes on Slap's antics with the horse, Tristan replied, "I'm sure you could, if we have the time, but since you're here, you can see to any work needed on Giselle."

"Glad to. I'm surprised you're staying here though and not on the ship. This is so out of the way, and hard to get to."

"Precisely. The people have a mistaken idea I'm some kind of hero. I've had three requests to go to the city to help with discussions on the government they're trying to set up."

Chuckling, Carter leaned back and stretched out his legs. "I see. So...are you heading to the city soon?"

Tristan nodded. "This afternoon."

"You, young man," Gran's voice called from the doorway.

Carter twisted around. "Me, ma'am?"

"You two can be useful while you visit. Come get these buckets and get busy shelling."

"Shelling?" Carter rose and walked over, staring into the buckets.

"Don't dawdle. Take them over, and you two get busy, or you won't have peas for supper tonight."

The engineer complied, and both men stared at the long, slender green pods in the buckets.

"Peas?" Carter murmured.

"Oh, landsakes!" Gran set a pot on the ground in front of them. She picked up a pod and deftly split it open, then thumbed the peas into the pot. "There. Don't tell me you spacer types can't figure out how to shell peas."

With a laugh, Gran went back into the house.

Tristan viewed the captain's cabin with a sense of homecoming, especially since he had replaced most of his library.

"Y'know," said Slap's voice from behind him, "the best cabin should belong to the owner."

"It's called 'the captain's cabin,'" retorted Tristan.

Chortling, Slap held out an e-pad. "We have two cargoes heading out, and three to pick up and bring back."

"Turning me into a legitimate businessman?"

"I'm sure you'll find side stuff for yourself, but I do appreciate that you're helping my people and the Guilds and Merchants."

Tristan sniffed, reading the contents. "Have you stocked the galley?"

"Stuff's been ordered and should be delivered in three days. You still planning on leaving then?"

"Yes." Tristan opened a new file on the e-pad and began making a list. "Here are some items to add." He finished and handed the pad back to the cowboy.

Slap read it and grinned. "You gonna be cooking too, huh?"

Tristan didn't deign to answer. He strode toward the bridge, but from down the hall Carter's voice called, "Captain? Someone here to see you."

Tristan spun and headed for the side hatch. Carter's huge eyes were glued to the visitor, and no wonder. Tanya looked as alluring as ever. Distracting as ever.

"We need to talk," she said without preamble.

With a wave of his arm, Tristan indicated the door to the rec lounge. Her straight back and solid stride as she walked ahead of him put him on guard.

He sat in one of the cushioned chairs on the side and looked up in anticipation.

Her eyes flashed as she stood before him. It was cliché but true—she was gorgeous when angry. And it made the ache inside spread.

"They want to disband the guild and make my profession illegal. I warned you this would happen."

"Push. Fight. You have the drive and will."

"Not against all of them." Her shoulders drooped slightly. "And with many of the wealthy leaving the planet, it isn't as lucrative as it was, either."

Tristan shrugged. "You might look into a different career."

Her lips thinned. "You would say that. Perhaps you'd like that—want that to happen. Perhaps you'd rather I not work in this business. That this might make me run to you, be your...what? Little wife? Clinging to you like a helpless damsel?"

Tristan rose, glaring. "You talk of a wife as a diminutive thing instead of a partner, someone strong enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with her husband." He stopped, looking away and grinding his teeth to keep from saying too much. Never since his youth had he been so close to opening his heart. She had no idea the affect she had on him. Did she think it was merely her body that attracted him? Her mind, her drive—what a team they could have made! But she had made her choice. And he had made his.

When he looked over, she wore a stunned expression.

He swallowed, trying to get control. Finally, he said, "Don't presume about me. You made it clear I was merely an 'interest' as long as I stayed tied to this planet. I'm not. Now excuse me," he pushed past her, "but I have business to conduct."

She whirled, grabbing his arm. "You have business with me!"

With a quick snatch, he replaced her grip with his own on her wrist. He held her arm between them, meeting her eyes evenly. "Focus your will on what you want, and you can attain it. But don't come to me to be your Prince Charming and rescue you. You don't play damsel convincingly."

He released her and waited. She regarded him warily, eyes narrowed. "It was a mistake to ask you for help."

"I hope that was rhetorical."

Her nostrils flaring, she swept out of the lounge.

He waited, heart thudding, then strode out—out of the room, out of the ship. Damn her for making him dream. Damn himself for letting himself dream. The fresh air hit him, and he closed his eyes for a second. Business. Yes. He had some personal items to collect.

Today is the day, Slap thought, setting the meats in cold storage. I'm leaving the planet again. The going-away party with Gran and his family had been mostly happy. Aylish hadn't made any scenes, but still looked moon-eyed. Brìghde had cried.

He shut the door and glanced at the rest of the food littering the counter. They'd eat well, anyway.

"Hey, Slap, we have a visitor," Carter called, wiping his hands. "Mr. Lejeune wanted to talk to the owner."

Slap dumped onions in their bin and turned to see a short, spare man standing in the galley doorway with the engineer.

"Well, you found him." Slap grinned and held out his hand.

"I deal in gems and jewelry, Mr. McCarty." Lejeune said, shaking Slap's hand. "You might think my business was lucrative with the large population of wealthy people, but the Mordas' cut went deep into my pockets as well. I am now looking to expand my market. And I have a salesperson I wish to entrust with this task."

Lejeune hesitated. "She is my youngest daughter, Adamant. She is a good person, Mr. McCarty, but without a mother, she has become headstrong, and I...I have not been good in giving her direction."

Slap's stomach told him something was coming, and he might want to duck. But he owned a ship now and had to do business, didn't he? He waited while Lejeune shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"I thought this job might instill some responsibility in her. And...some sense. If you're willing to take on my daughter as a passenger, to be my salesperson, I would greatly appreciate it."

"Well,"—Slap scratched his head—"I don't see why not..."

"The thing is," Lejeune said, "you've already met her." He held his hand out to the door and the curly-headed Addie stepped around, scowling.

Slap let his weight settle onto one leg and crossed his arms. The wildcat as a passenger? What would Tristan say? A vision of his friend's reaction made a smile tug at Slap's mouth, and he found himself replying, "Mr. Lejeune, it would be a pleasure."

"Do you have the galley stocked now?"

"Sure do." Slap grinned across the galley at Tristan and nodded at the volume tucked under his friend's arm. "What's that?"

"A book."

"I know that," Slap said, rolling his eyes. "What's in it?"

"Poetry." Tristan tipped his head. "I don't suppose you have any interest in poetry."

"Sure I do." Slap straightened and began, "There once was a man from Nantucket—"

Tristan sighed—making Slap grin—but before he could leave in a huff, Slap said, "We have a passenger."

Tristan stopped, staring at Slap. "We're not a passenger ship."

"She's a salesperson for a jeweler. She's unpacking in her cabin now."

Tristan seemed to consider the prospect. "I suppose that's acceptable. But you know I don't like—"

Addie bobbed up at the doorway beside Tristan. "I don't either."

"You!" The look on Tristan's face was worth it all. Slap bit his lip to keep from laughing.

Their mutual glares seemed about to set off a fire. Tristan turned to Slap, hooking a thumb at the girl. "She's the salesperson?"

"Adamant Lejeune," Addie said, lifting her chin. "Sales rep for Lejeune Jewelers."

"Lejeune?" Tristan's eyebrows rose. "French?"

"Belgian."

The smidge of interest on Tristan's face vanished, and he turned away from her, shooting Slap a black look. "You approved this, without asking me?"

"Well, I am the owner."

The dark man spun and left, muttering under his breath.

Addie stared after him. "Not very friendly, is he?"

"Well, he don't cotton being shot at, I'd reckon."

"I said I was sorry." She crossed her arms. "Besides, he started it, wanting to space me, then stranding me on that planet."

Slap busied himself putting away the rest of the produce. "Best make sure you're settled in. We should be taking off soon."

After Addie left, Slap let himself laugh out loud.

"Where's Carter?" Tristan asked, looking up at the old ship. She'd been through so much, and despite the refit looked her age, a century-old Canary-class freighter. "I need to know if Giselle is ready to go."

"He's in engineering, where else?" Slap replied. "I asked him how ol' Bertha was earlier. He started rambling about secondary something-or-others and other stuff I can't make heads or tails of, but finally said she was fine to fly."

"Good."

Tristan climbed the ramp, Slap following, but a voice behind him said, "Excuse me. Are you the captain?"

Turning, Tristan saw a port supervisor at the edge of the dock-pad, carrying a clipboard.

"I am."

"I have a list of port fees due for this ship. They have to be paid before you can leave."

"Let me see them." Tristan held out his hand. Looking over the fees, he saw many were new ones—the power vacuum was sucking everyone's greed, it seemed. He handed the clipboard to Slap. "This is the owner's headache."

Leaving the cowboy stuttering, he entered the ship with a smile.

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