Natchez Flame Read Online Free PDF Page A

a child of her own.
    Several drops of water landed lightly on her cheekand Priscilla looked up at the sky. The fluffy white clouds she had spotted sometime earlier had thickened and turned as gray as the hull. Her stomach rolled in warning.
    Merciful heaven, please don’t let me get seasick.
She could just imagine Trask’s look of disdain if he knew how close she had come to disaster aboard the
Orleans.
She’d been barely able to eat, her skin pallid and her stomach queasy. If the seas grew rough, she was certain to disgrace herself.
    Fortunately, for the time being, Trask had gone down to the main salon with some of the men to play poker. Though his gambling galled her no end, Priscilla had remained silent. What Trask did with his time aboard ship was really none of her business. Besides, she needed his help to reach Stuart, and she didn’t want to chance his anger. So far he’d been a perfect gentlemen—much to her surprise—but she didn’t doubt his capacity for violence; she’d seen that first-hand. Priscilla didn’t want to find herself on the receiving end.
    Several more raindrops fell, and Priscilla faced the inevitable need to go below. Though her stomach already protested, she’d have the steward bring her a tray and force herself to eat supper. After a good night’s sleep she’d feel better, she was sure. In just five days she’d be on dry land again. Surely she could survive until then.
    “Three aces beats my three jacks. You win again, Trask, you lucky bastard.”
    It’s hardly a matter of luck
, Brendan thought, raking in his winnings, big Texas currency not yet exchangedfor U.S. dollars, Spanish
reales
, and shiny gold eagles. The three men sitting across from him through the tobacco smoke were obviously city gents, as easy to read as the naive little lady tucked away below decks.
    “I’m out.” Nehemiah Saxon, a thin-faced, balding man in a rumpled brown sack coat slid back his chair. The ship dropped into a trough, and the man stumbled a little before he could get to his feet.
    “Too rich for my blood,” said the rotund merchant named Sharp, who chomped noisily on his fat black cigar. “Think I’ll go topside afore this storm gets any worse and get a little fresh air.”
    “I will stay in,” said the big German farmer lounging against the back of his squat oak chair. Walter Goetting was by far the shrewdest of the lot. If he hadn’t played poker much before, he was certainly catching on quickly.
    Brendan silently saluted his growing expertise and vowed to watch him a little more closely. Accepting a slim cheroot that the big German offered, Brendan cupped his hand against the flame and lit up. Though tobacco was the one bad habit he had yet to acquire, he relaxed with an occasional cigar.
    “Mind if I sit in?” The gruff male voice cracked across the sparsely furnished room, and Brendan swung his eyes toward a beefy man in a sweat-stained red-checkered shirt and fringed buckskin breeches.
    “There’s two seats open.” Brendan blew out a plume of smoke. “Trask’s the name.” he extended his hand, and the beefy man shook it.
    “Badger Wallace.” His grip was solid, just like the man himself.
    Brendan kept the smile carefully fixed on his face. “Badger Wallace. I’ve heard the name. Texas Ranger, if I’m not mistaken.”
    “That’s right.” Wallace turned his chair around backwards and settled himself astride it. The other men introduced themselves and the game started up again.
    “Trask,” Wallace repeated, rolling the name around his mouth, which was barely visible beneath his thick black handlebar mustache. “Wouldn’t be Brendan Trask, would it?”
    “Might be,” Brendan evaded, drawing on the cigar to give himself some time. “How do you know Trask?”
    “Never met the fella, but I heard tell he’s a real good man with a gun. Friend of mine fought with him against the rebels down on the Yucatán.”
    “What friend is that?” Brendan asked, feeling a