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Winner Takes All

S

QUINTING

at the horizon didn‟t offer him much a view of

anything save a well-worn trail and the last, faint, dark-
orange beams of sunset. There wasn‟t much in the distance
either, just mountains and flat, dry valleys waiting on winter
for more water than they could hold. No motion and no sign
of dust, but then the federal marshal who had ridden out
with Dunson in custody was long gone, and the Overland
that had arrived in town at about the same time was stopped
beside the Glory Hotel and had been for some time now.
There was nothing to look at in that horizon except maybe
the possibility of heading further west.

People went west when looking for escape and a place to

breathe free. Morgan put up a hand as the last beams of
light disappeared behind the mountain and waited for the
first hint of colder air to hit him.

He was hot and irritable with dried sweat, dirty, and he

knew it. A man couldn‟t spend every waking moment for
three whole days locked inside a small building with a hand
near his gun and not feel the grit of exhaustion and stink
along his skin. He‟d been walking around rather aimlessly
for the past hour and a half since Dunson had been taken
out of his custody, not stopping in any one place for long.
He‟d changed the handkerchief at his neck and traded out
one black shirt for another this morning, but he had only to
rub at his jaw to know that he looked more disreputable
than his recently departed prisoner ever had.

Knowing he wasn‟t in any state to walk into the hotel

wasn‟t what held him or what kept him looking out west for

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a few seconds longer. He could hear music, an out-of-tune
piano churning familiar songs for the stage passengers
spending the night at the Glory before they went on their
way.

Morgan wasn‟t a man on his way anywhere, not if he

could help it, no matter the vaguely restless itch that hit him
at odd times to live like the old days or the worry that now
was the time to move on. But a respite from the dull heat
would have felt nice.

The thought enabled him to turn on his heel and amble

slowly back down the street toward his jailhouse. He ought
to go to the hotel, he knew that, but he tightened his jaw and
headed on past it, frowning to himself at the lights streaming
out, the glittering hints of the dresses of the less respectable
passengers, the scent of good food being served, and then
finally the rounds of happy laughter.

It wasn‟t Sunday, but there were a lot of locals about

too. Farmers who‟d maybe heard the stage might come in
today and were here to pick up any mail or visit with the
strangers passing through. He nodded at each of them
without coming any closer or slowing down for a word.

They smiled at him, now that Dunson was gone. Once

again, Morgan was glad he‟d chosen this town when he‟d
accepted their offer of town marshal. It was a hard thing to
settle down and yet easy when it came to it, if you wanted it
enough or if a place felt like home.

All it took was guts, really.
For one bare moment, the thought filled his chest with a

down-low kind of heat, not quite anger, not quite arousal. It
only worsened when there was another round of laughter
from the hotel, where he had no trouble at all imagining

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there was a card game or two in progress already and where
there would be a few more over the next few days.

After a while the players might move to the saloon and

dance halls, once the decent folk had gone to bed or church.
Might be safe to venture into the Glory then, visit his room,
have a bath and a good meal. Morgan‟s entire body was an
ache now, weariness and hunger and dried sweat and a
longing for home that had nothing to do with his bed at the
Glory.

It was a struggle to breathe at the realization, and there

was still no trace of a breeze to cool his face.

Aside from the activity at the hotel, the town was quiet,

bedding down for the night. Tomorrow, he promised himself.
Tomorrow, after a night of real rest, he might be better able
to deal with what that stage had brought him.

It would be the same as it had always been. Already he

was flushing and feeling as young and green as a kid.
Morgan rubbed at his eyes to banish the wayward emotions,
then at his chin, as though that would make him more
presentable, before giving up.

Christ, he could use a drink. The tension at his

shoulders warned him against the idea of risking company,
however. Even sitting in a corner by himself, with some
redeye and a glare for any man fool enough to come closer,
wasn‟t advisable with his guard still up and the weight in his
chest.

He didn‟t need people, he needed…. He needed to be left

alone; that was all. He could get some sleep, and the rest
could be handled in the morning.

Not that he‟d get a chance to sleep that long. Morgan

scowled. He had no doubt he‟d be called out of bed before

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then to deal with some mess of a poker game. For a moment
he almost turned around and headed back, but no, there
was far less risk if he passed out in his cot tonight.

He could fix himself a drink, if he had any of Theo‟s

brew left back at the jail. Knowing it was pathetic to listen to
the merry time being had around a poker table at the hotel
without joining in wouldn‟t make that liquor taste any less
sweet. He could imagine it, though, the stories, the stares,
until he recalled himself. In any event, getting drunk at the
hotel would give the manager‟s wife one more chance to
decide he was looking poorly and to offer him too much food
in an effort to fatten him up.

He hadn‟t been thin since he‟d been a boy. Age had

given him height and the muscle to go with it, and there was
now enough silver in his dark hair to indicate he could take
care of himself. But if he gave in and accepted her offer,
then it would be less than a day before word would get out to
Mrs. Dru, and Morgan would find himself waylaid by every
available young miss when they came into town for the next
few Sundays.

Mrs. Dru was a formidable woman who never seemed

set back by his refusal to play along with her matchmaking.
He‟d met military men less persistent, but he couldn‟t blame
her for it, however irritating it was. Some saw it that people
weren‟t meant to be alone. They were the kind of people who
didn‟t find being alone to be safer. The kind of good people
who might not understand why someone else would seek out
solitude.

“Marshal Morgan,” Crazy Miss Lettie greeted him as she

rode out, bringing his eyes up. He was tired but not too
jumpy; his fingers glanced over his gun without alighting on
it, and his narrow stare didn‟t last long. Miss Lettie was

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across the street, trailing a pack mule behind her pinto. The
way Lettie didn‟t stop, despite offering him a smile, made
Morgan greet her in return.

“Miss Lettie.” He tipped his hat as she went on by and

didn‟t stop her, though he wanted to ask if she‟d seen Theo
Brown around. She was usually the first to see the Negro
man, and Morgan had a feeling he might be spending more
than a few nights in his jailhouse with only the man‟s wicked
brew for company.

A few alleys to the side, down another narrow street

barely worthy of the name, and they‟d be in the part of town
Miss Lettie wasn‟t even supposed to acknowledge. But then,
she wasn‟t supposed to be wearing trousers either, or her
father‟s old hat. It was how she‟d come by her nickname.

People in town whispered that she was mad for taking

over her father‟s ranch, but Morgan rather liked her, from a
distance. He remembered how she was always the first to
volunteer for a posse and the handiest with a rifle to boot—
even if her aim wasn‟t as good as his. In fact, he admired her
more for the quiet way she lived her life and nodded again as
they went their separate ways.

There was more noise now, not all from the hotel, but

then, Cutter‟s place was close and always popular with
visitors. There was a part of him that considered stopping
there too. He counted Cutter a friend, a man wise enough to
keep his girls fairly clean and in one piece and the sense to
ask no questions when Morgan stopped by for a drink and
some conversation and little else.

The only lady to interest Morgan at the moment was

Lulabel, safely tucked in her stable for the night, and
perhaps his wife, wherever she was. Last he‟d heard,

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Chicago. This was no kind of life for her, and he was no kind
of man for her, and he wished her well.

The jailhouse was mostly dark, making his chest tighten

further in ways that no amount of liquor could help, but he
climbed up the steps and took one last look around before
walking in and immediately closing the door behind him.

It was nearly silent inside, distant laughter muffled, his

own harsh breathing all he could hear for a long moment as
he leaned against the door and let his shoulders fall. Days of
breathing in Dunson‟s stink while waiting for the marshal to
take him away, and now, not even a chance to breathe free
without imagining lavender and rose-water and the sting of
pure, clean soap on a dandy‟s skin.

The laughter seemed welcoming, friendly, and Morgan

shut his eyes. He was too old to be lulled by stories and too
smart to sit down to cards, but the hotel called to him just
the same. He reminded himself sternly that tonight his jail
was his home and tamped down the surge of anger at what
he was denying.

Most days, Morgan liked his jail. It was a good, solid jail,

built by good, solid citizens to hold the bad and the
degenerate. It was small, true, but that was all he needed,
or, at least, all he dared ask for. Two cells, an office-cum-
waiting room, and a small room in the back with a cot and a
washbasin for those nights he didn‟t feel like heading over to
his single room at the hotel—or couldn‟t, due to a prisoner
who needed a watchful eye.

In truth, there wasn‟t much difference between his room

here and his room there; both were small and sparsely
furnished, decorated only by his other pair of boots and his
considerable gun collection. A married man might have

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needed more room, but Mary Ellen, bless her wise heart, had
run off years before he‟d ever come to this border town, and
he had no inclination to remarry, for reasons he never
thought about anymore.

At least, not much. Not unless he couldn‟t help it. Like

when the nights were long, and when he was tired from days
of worry and waiting to pass off a prisoner to the federal
marshal, and whenever a certain inveterate tinhorn poker
player rode into town—or rode in on the stage as though he‟d
finally lost his horse over some cards.

The very fact that that tinhorn was currently boarding

at the Glory, as he always seemed to do when he rode into
town on the black mare he claimed to love, covered in dust
and a shadow of a beard, meant Morgan was eying his little
jail as his new home and would be as long as that two-bit
gambler and probable cheat was in town. He‟d never get a
wink of sleep otherwise, and he needed that.

He was so bone-weary from his vigil that he thought he

might treat himself to a cup of coffee, even if sunset was
about to be a thing of the past. He might need to stay awake,
after all. There could be trouble at the saloons later at those
card tables, and his well-meaning deputy Thompson was
next to useless—especially now that his wife had had a baby.

Of course, if he went to sleep, he wouldn‟t have to hear

the laughter trickling down the street from the hotel‟s tables,
where Matt Dixon would be cleaning out billfolds and telling
those damn tall tales and stories about his father to make
people laugh while he took their money.

Those stories had a touch of magic in them, for all that

they were lies. Or were probably lies, or lies with a grain or
two of truth in them, but so fanciful and well-told that

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anyone could fall for them. Dixon‟s tales could take you
someplace else: to made-up towns; to meet people who likely
didn‟t exist; and in them, always, always, Dixon himself as a
long-lost prince, or the savior of an entire island during a
storm, or as the only winner in six hands of stud against
Hickok himself.

That one might be true, even if the kid sometimes

hardly seemed old enough with his flashy suits and coppery
hair. Other times, Dixon seemed exactly old enough, or
older, his gaze entirely too jaded for the heartbeat before he‟d
recall himself and smile as he began to spin another yarn
about San Francisco‟s emperor, or how he‟d once served a
glass of whiskey to a Russian princess who‟d swallowed it
without flinching and asked for more.

It was no wonder the man was so loved, even if he was a

card player. It was possibly one reason he hadn‟t been killed
yet. Dixon sat down to play with people who couldn‟t read,
who had scars from the whips of overzealous bosses, or who
had never been to towns much bigger than this one. Maybe
that was why the man seemed like a gift to them—an actor
and magician combined, one hand always over your heart as
the other reached for your billfold.

It was hardly a surprise that some didn‟t even notice

that he was taking their hard-earned wages while he spoke;
they only smiled and waited until he offered up another
story.

Morgan clenched his jaw hard and moved, but only to

flip the lock on the door to keep out any unwanted visitors.
He knew exactly how difficult the life of those cowhands was,
what it took to survive it or get away, and yet somehow,
while he didn‟t like Dixon‟s methods, he wanted the tales
anyway.

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Not for the first time, he wondered if Dixon knew that

too—if he also had first-hand knowledge of all those
moments from youth both great and sickening, if he‟d slept
under the stars with his best friends and done things to be
ashamed of when he‟d had no other choice. If he did, and he
smiled and stared so warmly and sweetly and took those
boys‟ money anyway, he was no good at heart, and Morgan
was right in driving him from town whenever he rode in.
Someone had to look out for those who couldn‟t protect
themselves from cheating, reckless gamblers.

Though there were always those who didn‟t laugh at

Dixon‟s stories, the ones who did charge him with cheating.
Not that Morgan or anyone else had ever made a charge
stick. The man played stud like he was one of the creatures
from the Old Country Morgan‟s mother had warned him
about; and if anyone on this earth was charmed, it would be
Dixon, with his green eyes and his looks that had saloon
girls and church ladies falling over themselves and his never-
ending streak of luck with cards.

“Gamblers….” Morgan snorted as he lowered the blinds

on the small window, shutting himself in with the flickering
low light of one oil lamp. He was talking to himself, going as
crazy as Miss Lettie—one quiet night at a time—but he didn‟t
stop himself. Out there it wouldn‟t do to admit weakness;
one wrong step, one careless move could lead to tragedy, but
in here he was alone at last, almost close to free.

With the blind down, there was no light coming in from

the street, though he could still hear murmurs from the
hotel.

“One step above criminals.” He tried to say it with force,

but the sound of laughter seemed to linger, like imaginary
bathhouse scents that still tickled his nose.

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“Now, Marshal,” someone declared in an unabashedly

intimate tone that made heat rise up in Morgan‟s belly, “a
man could take that real personal.”

One of his Colts already drawn, Morgan turned to stare

at Matt Dixon. Matt Dixon, sitting in Morgan‟s chair with his
shiny boots on Morgan‟s desk. His hat was off and hanging
from the coat rack like it belonged there, his tight black and
silver waistcoat looked like silk, his shirtsleeves were up, and
he hadn‟t bothered with a coat.

His hands flew out as though it was a stick up, though

there was no real fear in his voice. There was nothing in his
voice but the merry amusement that Morgan had thought
had been holding court down at the hotel.

“That‟s my chair.” It was a foolish thing to say. Morgan

swallowed dryly at the sound of his own voice, then holstered
his gun. There were a lot of other things he could have said,
the first of which were sharp words about how easily he
could have killed Dixon just now, but to say that, to voice
that aloud, might just be the end of him.

Dixon waited until the six-shooter was safely down

before lowering his hands. Then he smiled to show his even
teeth and looked Morgan over.

Dixon was starched and clean, soft hair pomaded back,

his shirt impossibly white. Morgan wore a dirty pair of black
pants and an old black shirt with the button missing at the
top that was almost hidden by the ends of the red scarf he‟d
tied around his neck. He wanted to scratch at his jaw, to
smooth down his mustache, but he held still, just watching
like a good lawman learned to do early on. To Dixon he must
look small-time, small-town. Not that he cared what Dixon
thought of him.

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Against his will, his hand came up to tug at the

handkerchief at his neck; then he switched his expression to
a glare and came forward.

Dixon only grinned, but he took his feet from the desk

and stood upright as Morgan yanked the chair away.
Standing, Dixon was only a fraction shorter than he was.
The man dressed like a dude, but he wasn‟t small or
harmless, he merely managed to give that impression,
something aided by his ridiculous clothing.

Dixon was wearing a new suit. They were always new—

and costly. He owned three from Chicago and two from San
Francisco. He‟d been wearing one from New York City when
they‟d first met. If Morgan had wandered from camp to cow
town as a young man before settling here, Dixon had yet to
outgrow his itchy feet. Morgan was not certain the man ever
would. Dixon‟s wanderings had no rhyme or reason, but
three or four times a year, here he‟d be, always with new
stories of faraway places and tales that couldn‟t be true, and
always, always ignoring Morgan‟s last order for him to stay
out of town.

“Dixon.” The man had cleaned off the trail dust in the

past few hours. Busy with the marshal, Morgan hadn‟t let
himself acknowledge the arrival of the stage or Dixon‟s
presence on it, or his wave as he‟d disembarked and turned
unerringly to find Morgan watching from down the street, or
his smile when Morgan had not waved back, any more than
he‟d acknowledged the flare of heat in his gut that he only
ever felt around Matt Dixon.

In the past few hours, Dixon had gotten a shave and a

bath and smelled of lavender water and roses, the kinds of
scents that led people to assume things about a man. The
kind of smells to haunt a man‟s dreams.

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“I told you to get out of town.” Morgan tried to stay

calm, but the jail was small and the scent of flowers was
everywhere.

“And I did. Now I‟m back. Why, Jim, you‟re as sharp as

a Pinkerton man.” Dixon was beaming at him like he was
made of sunshine.

“And stay out.” Usually that kept Dixon away for

months at least. But it had only been six weeks. Morgan was
well aware that he‟d been counting. He could only be grateful
that Dixon didn‟t know that.

“I couldn‟t do that.” Dixon flapped a hand. “I went back

east, just for something to while away the empty days, but
there was no escape. Point of interest, Marshal, you‟re still a
legend back in Kansas. Anyway, the whole territory knows
you never break the law, and”—Dixon‟s inhale was loud—
“you know you had no legal reason to ban me.” Dixon
pouted, pouted, like a Southern belle, and Morgan felt his
ears go hot.

He was tired of feeling a boy again in this man‟s

presence and too tired in general to fight the urge to ask
Dixon about moonlight and bedrolls and being so young that
momentary solace seemed the only thing to wish for if you
were brave enough.

“Why not? There‟s more money to be had in San

Francisco.” But he wasn‟t quite fool enough to ask any of
that out loud, or to believe Dixon‟s flattering words about
being a legend. Though until Dixon had joined that last
posse—complaining the whole time, whining that he was
hungry and tired, trying to get anyone to play cards—Morgan
had still thought himself one of the best shots west of the
Mississippi. One brief moment in which Dixon had casually

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demonstrated his ability with a gun—for a bet, of course—
had ruined that illusion.

It had been as startling as the realization that the little

derringer often to be found in Dixon‟s waistcoat was for
show, and his real gun, when he wore it, was a .44, which he
carried at his hip, with the butt out to draw with his opposite
hand. Faster, he‟d claimed, and damn if it hadn‟t been, at
least when he‟d done it.

Then Dixon‟d had the nerve to joke, with his eyes light

on Morgan and Morgan‟s mouth still dry at the realization
that Matt knew how to draw faster than lightning. In doing
so, he‟d given Morgan another series of sleepless nights.
Nights spent dreaming of that soft hand curved around steel
and then nightmares of that same hand, pale and lifeless
and stained with blood.

“Money? I‟m surprised. I had no idea you were so

mercenary, Marshal.” Dixon looked disappointed, then
stepped over to drag his hands down the iron bars of the
cells. He was not prancing, not quite; he was not the kind of
man who could be said to, but there was enough music in
the gesture to make Morgan swallow.

“Missing those bars? I could arrest you again.” He

sneered breathlessly, with a rasp to his voice. Three days
total he‟d had Dixon in his jail. He didn‟t care if he was
counting again. He‟d been counting then, adding up the
times Dixon had been here, safely locked up in Morgan‟s jail
with no chance to leave again.

“You‟d like that, wouldn‟t you?” Dixon gave him a look

that made Morgan think about all those expensive clothes
and the kind of sin that went on in the cities where he‟d
bought them. He quickly turned away to untie his leg straps,
then unbuckle his gun belt.

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He wasn‟t worried about getting shot at the moment,

though of course Dixon would have at least one weapon on
him, even if only his derringer. Morgan had confiscated it
when he‟d had to arrest the man or see him beaten bloody by
too many drunken cowhands who‟d given him too much of
their wages. It had been pearl-handled and warm from being
carried close to Matt‟s chest, and small enough to cradle in
his palm.

He‟d allowed just his fingertips to run over the smooth

white sheen and listened as Dixon had laid back on the
narrow cot and spun yarns until dawn. When Dixon had
talked long enough, some of the stories had even seemed to
ring true.

The second time Morgan had gotten to arrest him, for

much the same thing, as it was easier to send drunks home
without their guns than it was to arrest every fool in town,
Dixon had slept without stirring for ten straight hours and
then explained card tricks to him in a soft whisper all
through what had been left of the night.

Dixon had slept on those cots like they were feather

beds at the Palmer House, and during one short stay had
sweet-talked Thompson into bringing him dinners from the
Chinese settlements and Miss Lettie into starching his
collars. He‟d spent the rest of the time, of course, talking,
whether Morgan had answered him or not. The fact that
Morgan had never responded had never seemed to deter him.

If he had to be honest, out loud, outside of his own

mind, Morgan would admit that Dixon was possibly a better
shot with his pistol than Morgan was. But only grudgingly,
because it was like sand in his teeth or a rock in his boot to
know Dixon was one more thing he wasn‟t. To know that for

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all his stream of conversation, there were things about Dixon
that Morgan didn‟t know.

Where he had been born was a mystery, though Morgan

often imagined him to be city raised. He didn‟t know if Dixon
was a comparable shot with a rifle or shotgun or who had
taught him to play cards, though according to many of his
own stories, that had been Matt‟s father.

Nonetheless, the information wasn‟t to be trusted. Dixon

was a wandering card player. A man who bluffed for a living.
Who talked and joked before he‟d ever draw his gun. Which
could have been a reasonable policy, considering the souls
he would have had on his conscience if he‟d been forced to
really draw down; Morgan‟s kills weighed on him to this day,
one more reason to keep to himself. But perhaps Dixon‟s
skill with a gun was also the reason Dixon was brave enough
to act the way he did, flouting conventions if not laws and
hinting with his bright, sharp eyes that he wanted Morgan to
flout them too.

“No,” Morgan said shortly at last, stowing his guns,

removing his hat, and then standing for a moment, only
breathing. When he ran out of reasons to avoid it, he
straightened up and turned back to face that stare.

“And after all I‟ve done to make you like me.” He hated

when Dixon joshed around when nothing about this was
funny.

“You mean causing trouble in my town three times a

year or whenever else you happen to ride in?” He bit his
tongue to make himself be quiet. He sounded peevish,
jealous, and Dixon‟s smile was sin itself, relaxed and
insufferably patient, before he shrugged and leaned back
against the bars. Morgan tried to distract him, changing the

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subject in a way that was damn obvious. “What happened to
your horse?”

Dixon‟s eyes crinkled at the corners before his mouth

turned up. “Having a baby, poor kid. I‟m honestly worried
about her. She‟s on a farm with this Swedish family I met
once who….” He cleared his throat, but his smile didn‟t fade.
He was clearly tickled that Morgan had asked about his
damn horse. “As for the rest, Jim, I don‟t cause the trouble. I
never make anyone gamble, especially not big, stupid
cowboys with big, open faces and too much whiskey in their
stomachs. A child could take their money. Anyway, it‟s what
I do. What else would I do with myself?”

“They are children.” Even a gambler ought to see that.

“Not one of them experienced enough to know better than to
play with you. You, you—” It was rare to say this much, rare
to let his anger show, rarer to be at a loss for words. Dixon
straightened, some of his brightness leaving him. “You fill
their heads with such nonsense that they can‟t think
straight, and then you take from them the one thing that‟s
truly theirs.”

He was breathing too hard, and his hands were at his

sides, but clenched, not reaching for pistols that weren‟t
there. “They‟ll learn soon enough, but you don‟t need to be
the one….” Morgan almost closed his eyes. “You don‟t know
what it‟s like out there, being that young, alone—” He cut
himself off there, because perhaps Dixon did know that.
Perhaps Dixon‟s way was the better way after all; it wasn‟t
smart to give a man too much information about yourself,
especially not a man like this.

Dixon leaned back. His expression was no longer so

easy to read. “I thought you liked being alone, Marshal,” he
remarked, his tone saying something his face did not.

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Morgan wasn‟t nearly as adept at hiding his thoughts. He
glanced over at the stove and the coffee pot, then back after
the words were out.

“I do.”
For an answer, Dixon touched a finger to his nose and

smiled again. In the language of card players, Dixon was
showing Morgan a tell to let him know what an obvious lie
that had been.

In northern Texas once, when he hadn‟t been much

older than sixteen, Morgan had worked with a vaquero
named Bernardo who had spent much of his time talking
about heaven and suffering judgment. Sometimes Morgan
thought that was what Dixon was, all his sins and wrongful
desires come to torment him in the form of one devilish,
remarkable man. Other times he thought Dixon something
else. As magic as a carnival mind reader.

Dixon reading his thoughts was a dangerous notion.

Morgan looked up and got caught by those green eyes and
thought everything, everything he‟d secretly wished for was
there for Dixon to know. It wasn‟t as though he hadn‟t seen
other men naked or known what men of this kind did
together, it was that these things didn‟t repulse him. And
when he thought of Dixon, of Matt, his throat tightened, his
pulse pounded, and he wanted nothing so much as to touch
him. Nothing. More than he‟d ever wanted anything else.

He shuddered at the heavy heat suddenly between them

and at the slight hitch in Matt‟s breathing, and then he
moved. He looked over the hanging keys to the cells.

“You could get a real job. Settle down.” Morgan stopped

himself again, wincing at the pained way the words slipped
from him. “Somewhere else.”

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“Interesting,” Dixon mused as he returned to fondle the

iron bars of Morgan‟s jail as though they were a treasured
memento of better days. “You know that can never fully
happen, Jim,” he remarked gently. Morgan clenched his jaw.
Dixon shot him a look. “And you know why, Marshal. But….”
He tapped the iron and it rang out. “Supposing I do finally
return to my beloved Paris….”

Morgan snorted, as he seriously doubted the man had

ever been to France, but as always, there was just that much
doubt as to make his heart kick hard against his ribs, to
make him think of Dixon well and truly gone, a country and
an entire ocean between them.

“…Then who would liven up your daily routine of

rounding up drunks and busting up fights? Where‟s the
excitement?”

Just like that Morgan could move again, not that he had

anywhere to go. “I‟ve had enough excitement.” He forced
himself to step over to the stove and sniff the dregs in the
coffee pot. Then he added more wood to the stove to heat it
back up. He wasn‟t going to be sleeping much tonight
anyway.

“I heard,” Dixon said softly, and Morgan turned.

“Legend, I said, Jim. I meant it.”

Unlike Dixon, the stories about Morgan were

unfortunately almost all true. That he‟d shot a man trying to
disarm him by using an agent‟s spin to gain the upper hand;
that he‟d used the butt of his gun to break up more fights
over card games and whores than he could count; that he‟d
once found himself in the open with three men pulling on
him and had still outdrawn them all, killing them in the time
it had taken the town sheriff to emerge from the jail; that one

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| 20

morning, without even his boots on, he‟d had to come out of
his room in Abilene and confront an angry preacher, still
feeling the effects of the night before, who had been
threatening a dance hall girl and who hadn‟t taken kindly to
being asked to stop.

It had been the strangest sight of his life, a crazed

preacher man coming toward him with a knife. Also the
saddest, when the preacher had dropped and choked out his
last prayer over the gurgling in his throat.

Morgan had had to move on after that. Moments like

that settled towns, and settled towns didn‟t need men like
him. Appreciated or not, it wasn‟t the kind of thing that
decent people wanted around them or the kind of thing that
allowed a man to remain unnoticed.

It gave a man a name, sent people to him who wanted to

hire him for jobs that turned his stomach. He‟d turned to
other cow towns and mining boom towns until he‟d found
this place. It was already settled, with just enough men
roving in and out to keep him busy without earning him any
new nicknames or stories.

A place where he could mind his own business and

where people mostly minded their own as well, out west far
enough where no one should care what he did as long as he
didn‟t harm anyone else. Though he hadn‟t once dared to
test that, not even as quietly as Miss Lettie had.

“The time with the train, you weren‟t even riding guard,

were you? You were just a passenger like anyone else.”
Dixon spoke carefully, calling Morgan back with genuine
curiosity. Morgan met his stare, then attempted a shrug. For
all his teasing, he hadn‟t thought Dixon the kind of man to
pant after gunslingers.

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| 21

What was there to say? “I‟m just a man who notices

things.”

“And then does something about them.” Pride was warm

in Dixon‟s voice and in his eyes when Morgan turned. “Most
men run from gunfire, Marshal.” It could not be sincerity in
Matt‟s eyes, and yet when he would not look away, Morgan
pulled at the scrap of red at his neck.

“You just like a good story.” He dismissed the praise as

seriously as he could, though now he was imagining Dixon
sitting at a table in a town back east and listening to stories
about him with the same rapt attention that others had for
his tall tales. Those days weren‟t something Morgan liked to
talk about, and he‟d never believed in bragging, but he
wanted to ask which ones Dixon had heard and what else he
thought about them.

Foolish. Those days should have taught him better.

Instead they‟d made him change his life and dream of
something else. Short as life was, a man ought to feel free,
even if only for a moment. So he‟d come out here, never
expecting to find Matt Dixon nearly the very same day,
almost as though the man had been waiting for him.

“Tall tales.” He searched out another tin cup, not certain

why.

“Not with you, Jim. You‟re the genuine article.”
“Well.” Morgan coughed, after a beat. “My gunslinging

days aren‟t the issue. The issue is what you‟re doing here.”

“Here in town, here in your jail, or here on this earth?”

Dixon snapped back immediately, not remarking on the
change in topic, though as always, everything Morgan did
seemed to make him smile. “Because that is a profound
question, like in that new play—”

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| 22

“The first two, as you damn well know.” Morgan was

wrong; the man wasn‟t secretly brave or clever. He was an
idiot. A frustrating idiot with a clever mind, quick hands,
good aim, and a slim body Morgan wished were feminine so
he could safely dream of it. No one had ever riled him so
quickly and so often. “You claim you like to travel, that you
can‟t stay still for long, and yet you keep coming back to a
town with little money or trouble or prospects.”

Morgan lifted his chin, and Dixon said, almost to

himself, “Jim.”

No one called him that but Dixon. Morgan had pointed

that out once before. He was called Marshal or Morgan but
never James and certainly not Jim. But there was no
stopping Dixon for long.

“I thought you hadn‟t noticed.” Dixon raised his voice at

the accusation. “And I never thought you were listening.
Sure, I hoped you were, but—”

“Every word.” Morgan was breathing hard again. Dixon

seemed calm; he even shut his eyes.

“Smart Jim.” He sighed. “I knew I wasn‟t wrong.” His

eyes opened. “I never am.”

“Horse shit.” Morgan snorted. “Everyone gets it wrong

sometimes.” In his case, perhaps his whole life until he‟d
come to this town, become a better man, met a charming
gambler, and found who he really was and what he really
wanted.

“Okay… sometimes I am. But not enough to lose.”

Dixon‟s hands came out in mock innocence. Then a card
appeared in his hand—a joker. He stuffed it back in his
sleeve with a barely visible movement of his wrist. Morgan
opened his mouth at the display, scornful words at the tip of

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| 23

his tongue, but Dixon hurried on. “I could cheat, Marshal,
but I don‟t need to. There‟s no trick, really. It‟s just me.”

“An honorable gambler?” Morgan lifted an eyebrow, and

for once, Dixon‟s frown seemed real.

“I know I‟m everything you detest. A man with your

experience….” There was almost humility in how Dixon
paused. “You‟re a lawman—the lawman—upright, honest,
responsible….”

“And you‟re a lying card player, one wrong game away

from ending up on Boot Hill,” Morgan heard himself snarl,
and he strode forward when Dixon nodded carelessly and
went on.

“…Clever, wounded….” Dixon paused again, glancing

thoughtfully into his face with a look Morgan recognized that
halted him in his tracks. That look was watching someone‟s
eyes to see if a situation might turn violent. In Dixon‟s case,
Morgan thought it more checking for a lie, but he was too
spellbound to argue.

“…Lonely,” Dixon finished. He claimed not to have

magic, but Morgan felt that word hit him. He‟d been shot
only once before in his life. It hurt.

Morgan moved forward until he was toe to toe with

Dixon and slammed his hands on the bars on either side of
the man‟s head without touching one strand of his pomaded
hair.

“Wandering jackanapes with a gift for finding trouble

and a mouth like—”

“Yes, Marshal?” Dixon angled his head up, putting that

mouth right under his and then exhaling. “Do go on.”
Morgan felt dizzy, felt warm, felt stirrings low in his spine

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| 24

and an itch in his palms. Their chests nearly touched, but it
was their mouths, their breath, together that shocked him.

He could not move, not when he breathed and there was

lavender and Dixon, Matt Dixon, tense in front of him. Dixon
shivered with fear but then let a small smile slip, and maybe
it wasn‟t fear so much as anticipation.

“Danger.” Morgan wasn‟t yellow, even if he might dream

of Kansas City dudes and rosewater scents. Even if the
thought of Matt wanting this made his insides quicken.
“Don‟t you see the danger?”

“James Henry Morgan.” Dixon wouldn‟t move, and,

damn it all, Morgan couldn‟t seem to make himself move
either. Soap and starch filled his senses. It mingled with
sweat, the scent masculine, no matter what he tried to
pretend. Dixon slowly raised one hand—Morgan could just
see it, though he couldn‟t look away—and tugged at
Morgan‟s red scarf with two fingers, not quite hard enough to
pull him closer. If he had… if he had….

Morgan was obvious, licking the rim of his lips, flushing

hot to his ears. Dixon didn‟t laugh, though his smile seemed
to freeze. He inhaled sharply and then jerked as he forced
his eyes back up to meet Morgan‟s.

“My dear Marshal, I see everything.”
The words didn‟t make much sense, no matter how

quick the man was.

“I‟m not your anything,” Morgan insisted, so faintly a

puppy wouldn‟t have lowered its hind leg.

“I suppose not.” Dixon didn‟t seem put off either. He

seemed more intent on mocking Morgan. His breath smelled
sweet, like parsley, and felt damp, tempting in ways that left

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| 25

Morgan pounding and hard and aching. “It might mean
breaking a law or two.”

“It might mean swinging at the end of a mob‟s rope.” If

they were lucky. It was not the legality that was holding him
back. This hum in the air between them was not the kind of
thing brought before a judge, if a judge could even be found.
Killing and rustling and claim-jumping were about the only
things on the mind of the law. Everything else was up to the
people around them, what they chose to see, and what they
could choose to ignore.

Men killed each other for minor complaints, for snoring

and suspicions of cheating and offering up breakfast money
to a man with too much pride who was down on his luck.

This was his home now, and Morgan wouldn‟t risk all of

that on someone unreliable. Someone who couldn‟t know
about those young days and who couldn‟t be discreet if he
tried… unless of course he could.

But his words and the truth of them should not have

made Dixon smile. They were talking death.

“Is that so much worse than the months when I‟m

gone?” For a man who claimed to see everything, Dixon
reached out for him like a blind man, slowly putting his
palm over his badge. He dropped his other hand to rest there
too, letting his fingers just trace over the points of the tin
star. Morgan shuddered but stood his ground.

One wrong move could lead so easily to disaster, he

knew that, but he was so tired, weary enough to speak
honestly and recklessly.

“And that I should risk on a man who can‟t stay in town

longer than a week or two? Who doesn‟t even have a home
other than possibly his beloved Paris?” He could not raise his

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| 26

voice, but he strained to leave it at that and not blurt out
more like a fool. Matt inched up, his fingers not slipping
down toward Morgan‟s billfold no matter what he‟d thought
before.

“But Jim… I always come back, don‟t I? Home.” Dixon

was charmed, charming, and Morgan leaned toward him,
gritting his teeth. “But I can‟t stay too long, can I? Or
everyone would know…,” Dixon pleaded with him, shaping
his words so that their mouths touched. “But here I am.”

“Why?” Morgan asked again, tightly, rough with worry.
“In your jail? I was scared. After this afternoon I thought

you might try to duck me for the entire length of my visit this
time.” Dixon‟s other hand finally moved, sneaking onto
Morgan‟s stomach as light as a pickpocket‟s, but when he
found a button he freed it, and then his fingers padded over
skin. Morgan briefly shut his eyes. Dixon let their foreheads
touch, easing their mouths apart enough to allow him to
breathe.

He might always feel a boy again around this man,

young and stupid and afraid. He tried not to think that Matt
was petting him, soothing down his skittish nerves, but he
knew it was the truth when Dixon‟s voice made him shiver.

“As my father used to say, „Matt, pay attention, kid.

When you see the golden goose, you get off your ass and go
get it. And when you do, you hold on tight.‟ If that isn‟t good
enough, how ‟bout, „Kid, part of winning is knowing when to
hold your cards. You don‟t toss out a good hand. You keep it
close to you until the pot is yours.‟”

Dixon‟s fingers curled, hot through cotton, under

cotton. Morgan stopped breathing altogether.

“Or did you mean in town?” Matt was far from innocent,

but he tried to act as though he was—an act so bad Morgan

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| 27

briefly wondered if this was how he bluffed at poker, or if
even his bad acting was a lie.

“Isn‟t that obvious? What else could keep me coming

back all these years? Sure Miss Lettie can outdrink a mule,
and Mrs. Dru bakes a damn fine pie for all that her
Temperance league could scare the pants off John Wesley
Hardin, and Theo Brown makes the best spiced chicken I‟ve
ever had and continues to think he can play poker better
than me, but….” Matt pulled his head back and then took
his hands away from Morgan and lifted them up to wrap
them around the bars.

It was wrong not to have his touch anymore and only

right for Morgan to cover them with his own, to follow him
in, even, with his heart pounding and his skin flushed.

“But you, you‟re who I come to see. The only game in

town worth playing. The only one I want to win.” Dixon
smiled.

“Why?” Morgan had to know.
Dixon rolled his eyes but again dropped his voice to that

intimate whisper. “To share the risk with someone who is
worth it. To have someone who worries about me, even if I
am a wandering, no-good—if incredibly talented—gambler.
To ease the ache that keeps you up nights.”

There was no part of that that wasn‟t true. That wasn‟t

there to be seen, if he had only looked at it right.

“Stop,” Morgan ordered, or wanted to order, but what

came out was Matt‟s name with an uncertain shake to it. It
was a fool thing to be asking at all with so much on the
table, so he put his money up and let that last little bit of
space between them disappear.

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| 28

It was what he wanted, more than anything, and like a

kid, he reached out for it.

For the first second as their mouths touched, before

Matt‟s fell open and Morgan‟s hands came up to his face, he
forgot everything else—that they were standing upright
against the bars in his little jail, that there was even a town
outside, that there was any risk at all. He moved and Matt
answered, leaning his head back and letting their tongues
touch and shuddering violently when Morgan couldn‟t hold
back a low sound of pure lust.

It seized him tight in his chest, roared in his ears like a

stampede, gratitude and awe, holding him still until the heat
took over, rising fire spreading out from his belly. One of
them moaned.

Dixon‟s lips were a soft, slick circle of surprise, but his

hands weren‟t soft at all, gripping Morgan‟s hair when some
part of him tried to ease back and think. He pulled Morgan
back without mercy and held their bodies together with the
strength Morgan had wanted for so long. When he pushed
up, pushed back with grinding, rough need, Morgan shoved
forward to meet him, grasping at his skin, his shirt, his face
again, not thinking anymore, only needing the man closer.

He didn‟t want to breathe anymore, not with this raw

need only worsening, becoming about so much more than a
desire for a hard line of jaw beneath his palm and a firm,
lean body against his. The flowered scents were a teasing
reminder that it wasn‟t just any man, but Matt Dixon in his
arms.

He felt rough and clumsy, mashing their mouths

together, crushing Matt between himself and the iron bars,
but if it was rough and clumsy, Dixon only threw himself

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| 29

forward for more. He wasn‟t a man for delicacy, no matter
what he acted. He grunted and groaned for Morgan to taste,
and Morgan was wide awake and alive like he hadn‟t been in
years.

He turned only when his lungs burned, gasping in

mouthfuls of Matt‟s quick, shocked breaths instead of real
air and not giving a damn, rubbing his shadowed chin
across Matt‟s cheeks. He followed the sound of rasping
breathing, shifting to find Dixon‟s lips again with his eyes
closed. Quick, magic hands fumbled over his ears, clung to
the scrap of red at his throat. Matt didn‟t wish him to stop,
and Morgan didn‟t want to either, and there was nothing in
heaven or earth to say he should.

He wasn‟t gentle, sliding to press himself tight to the

body under that big city suit, hot and solid and pounding
hard, just for him.

He ran toward gunfire, as Matt had said, and so Morgan

slid his hands down, down over a silk waistcoat and the feel
of Dixon‟s heart racing, and thought about skin begging to
be touched. Instead he ran his fingertips past his waist and
then lower, until Matt‟s grip was back on his hair and
painful, and even then, it was Dixon who turned his mouth
away to swear with unexpected vulgarity. The catch in his
voice was as much a revelation as the twitching heat in
Morgan‟s palm.

Dixon‟s air was coming to him slow, because his

breathing was too fast, rough in Morgan‟s ear as he tried to
nod, earning himself more of a burn on his soft, newly
shaven cheeks.

“Morgan,” he said, and it was maybe the first time he‟d

ever said it. “Morgan.”

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| 30

Something inside Morgan‟s gut, like the faintly

humming line of tension still at his shoulders, slipped away.

He stilled his hand, leaving it to cradle the hard prick

ruining the line of tailored pants, and angled his head to find
Matt‟s mouth again. For this kiss he left his eyes open.

Matt was no longer yanking him closer. His hands

opened, soothing and enflaming Morgan all at once as they
slid down his neck, and then they untied his red
handkerchief and undid another button on his old shirt
before pulling back again.

Neither of them could do much more than pant for a

long few moments, and then Matt grinned.

“You really would have me in here, wouldn‟t you?”
Morgan frowned, not truly able to think much at the

moment but glancing around at the small cell. He thought of
Matt in there and put a finger to his nose. “No.”

Dixon‟s smile just went wider at that, and his hands

resumed toying with the tin star over his heart. “I‟ll call
that.”

Morgan considered him as seriously as a man could in

his situation. Then he nodded. “Yes. I‟d lock you up in here
and throw away the key.” Morgan wasn‟t much of a card
player, but he also knew when to keep a good hand.

Dixon went still.
“That, that right there may be the nicest thing you‟ve

ever said to me, Marshal,” he said, voice hoarse but likely
teasing, and Morgan thought about offering him some
proof—about mentioning the number of warrants that
crossed his desk, and handbills, and notices of murdered,
nameless gamblers in other towns, but he couldn‟t. Maybe it

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| 31

was there to be read in his face just the same, because
Dixon‟s smile flickered to something else, just for one
moment, something for Morgan to read in return, and then
Dixon pulled him forward once more to make him crazy.
Morgan didn‟t feel riled this time, only followed him, those
hands, that smile.

“Gambling‟s a risky line of work.”
“So‟s being a lawman,” Matt countered, and his smile

didn‟t make it any less true. “However,” he exhaled against
Morgan‟s mouth a second later, as though there‟d been too
much talking for his liking all this time and he‟d had better
things in mind, “until we are old men dying together in
France, wouldn‟t you rather have me someplace more
comfortable, Jim?” He pressed himself right into Morgan‟s
hand, and Morgan sucked in a startled, but easy and
unfettered, breath.

He jerked his head to the side.
“There‟s a bed in the back,” he murmured, as Dixon

certainly knew, but when Dixon laughed, he smiled and
leaned into him. He didn‟t feel the slightest itch to be
anywhere else, and when he didn‟t move, it was Dixon who
drew in a long, sweet breath.

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About the Author

R.

C

OOPER

has been making up stories since she was a wee

R. Cooper. She has a weakness for strong-minded characters
doing unspeakably hot things to each other and thinks dirty
martinis are for the weak (or perhaps just thinks olive juice
is gross). If she listed all of her turn-ons, it would take up
this whole bio, but they include smart people, tailored suits
with serious ties, shoulder holsters, funny people, sacrifices
made for love, power struggles, the walking wounded,
bravery, and good old-fashioned shameless sluts.
She also likes ice cream. Strawberry.
Visit R. at

http://r-cooper.livejournal.com/

You can contact

her at

[e-mail]

.

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Copyright

Winner Takes All ©Copyright R. Cooper, 2011

Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Catt Ford

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite
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Released in the United States of America
June 2011

eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-044-8