Betting on Hope

Chapter 6



After Tanner and Troy finished dinner, he dropped her at her best friend Lizbeth’s house. The two girls planned to go to a movie, and if Tanner knew anything about teenagers, flirt with boys. At least he hoped that’s all they’d do.

“Remember that I’ll know everything you do,” he said. “So be careful.”

“I will. Jeez, Dad. Lighten up! I’m going to college next week.”

“It’s not too late to rethink that plan.”

Troy grinned as she got out of the car. “Lizbeth will drive me home. We won’t drink, do drugs, or have sex. I’ll be careful.”

“Okay. Have fun.”

“If that’s even possible if you know everything I do.” She laughed, tossing him a saucy glance, her ponytail bouncing, as she turned and ran up the lawn of her friend’s house.

He watched her go, remembering how his own parents had given him the same warnings. And just like Troy, he hadn’t really listened, never thinking that anything could happen to him. And as a consequence, he’d become a father at nineteen, his whole world turned upside down.

Not that he would alter anything if he could. He’d wanted his daughter with a fierce protectiveness ever since the day she was born, when she’d wailed and clutched his finger as the only safe haven in a cold, cruel world. He’d been surprised at the depth of his emotions then, but never doubted them—not when his girlfriend’s parents came to put the baby up for adoption, not when, in desperation, he’d asked Jack’s father, a corporate attorney, to represent him when he asked for permanent custody. The court case had seemed to drag on forever, but in the end, Troy was his.

And that’s when the work had really started. He’d moved back home, finished college at night when his folks could watch his baby daughter, and he watched her in the daytime when they worked. His parents had really come through for him.

Those first few years were tough for all of them, but it had been more than worth it. Raising Troy had been incredible, the hardest, most fun, best thing he’d ever done. Troy had made him the man he was. A better man than he’d started out to be.

He drove home, believing, hoping, that Troy was smarter at eighteen than he’d been, and let himself into the house. He checked his messages. One. From agent Frelly.

“Call me when you get in,” Frelly growled.

Tanner sighed. What were the odds? Frelly would want him to go back to the casino. Maybe he’d found a way for Tanner to get in Big Julie’s game tonight.

He called the number the agent had left and Frelly picked up on the first ring.

“You gotta get over to the casino,” Frelly said. “We can fit you into Big Julie’s game tonight.”

“So soon?” Tanner asked. He tried to keep the doubt out of his voice. He’d only talked to the agents this morning. Surely replacing one of Big Julie’s regular card players with a total stranger couldn’t be that easy. Big Julie would be suspicious of substitutions.

“Yeah,” Frelly said. “One of his regulars ate a peanut. Guy’s allergic to peanuts. They hadda call an ambulance. Darla’s at the Desert Dunes waiting for you. We hid a camera in Big Julie’s bathroom. You go in pretending to take a leak. You take out the camera and hide it someplace in the room where they’re playing. It’s tiny. You won’t have no problem. Darla will show you how it works.”

“How am I getting into the game?” he asked. “I can’t just show up at the door and ask if Big Julie wants to play.”

“No,” Frelly agreed. “The floor manager will call Big Julie and ask him, since his seventh player is in the ICU, if he wants to play with you, because you are in the house and you’re not bad but not that good, either—”

“Hey!” Tanner said. “I’m very good.”

“Yeah, well, the point to remember here is that you won’t be playing that good with Big Julie, because we need him to win.”

Tanner thought. It sounded thin, but the point was to get him in Big Julie’s game. If this half-baked subterfuge got him there, fine.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll go down there. You’re staking me, of course.”

“Much as I hate to do it,” Frelly said.

Tanner rolled his eyes. “Then it’s showtime.”



But when Tanner got to the casino and went to the manager’s office, Darla told him the gig was off.

“Big Julie is too despondent to play because his regular has gone into anaphylactic shock with the peanut,” Darla reported. “Tonight’s game is cancelled. Sorry about that.”

Tanner thought about the chores he might have done that evening instead and felt philosophical.

“Will Big Julie still be feeling despondent next week, too?” he asked.

“I think he’ll be feeling better,” Darla said.

“I’d like to know how you guys do it,” Tanner said, as he opened the door that lead out to the floor. “That peanut. That was no accident.”

“Hey,” Darla said, grabbing her purse, preparing to follow. “Peanuts are everywhere. A person’s got to be careful.”



Tanner cut through the casino, thinking that if the action looked good he might as well play a few hands, when he saw Hope McNaughton, sitting alone at the bar, still wearing that ridiculous navy suit, clutching a glass and looking like she was going to throw up.

It was a man’s duty, not to mention his pleasure, to rescue a damsel in distress, so Tanner changed course and headed her way. Not that Hope, who must be five eight at least, was his idea of a damsel, exactly. In that suit, with that bright pink top underneath, she looked more like a really hot accountant, who, when she wanted to balance her ledgers with you, just took off her glasses and let down her hair before she really, really cooked your books.

Tanner shook his head, trying to get a grip, and then he slid onto the stool next to her, signaling the bartender for a beer before he nudged her elbow gently with his own.

“Tanner Wingate, remember me? We met today? Friend of Marty’s?”

Hope turned and looked at him blankly.

“I guess I didn’t make that good an impression.”

Hope blinked and seemed to come back into focus. “I’m sorry. What?”

“Tanner Wingate,” Tanner said again. “We met earlier.”

“Oh, right.” She sat up a little straighter. “The card player.”

“That’s me. So, what’s up?”

“Not much.” Hope took a pull out of her drink and set the glass back on the bar, smacking it against the edge as she did so. Some of the drink slopped onto the polished surface, and the bartended wiped it up as he set down Tanner’s beer.

She was just unbelievably beautiful. She looked like a tipsy Botticelli angel as she sat there, all lush hips and thighs and breasts and wavy blonde hair. But Botticelli angels rose naked from the sea and plucked spring fruit under the threat of cupid’s bow. They didn’t wear navy suits and camp out on bar stools, and now that he thought about it, Botticelli angels didn’t seem so cranky, either. The Botticelli vision faded, but duty still called. And if he rescued Hope, maybe she’d be really, really grateful. Another vision—one of black leather thongs and whips—entered his mind.

“I know something’s wrong,” he said, trying to exude empathy. “Want to tell me what it is?”

Hope closed her eyes and leaned into the bar, holding her head in her hands. “I’m fine,” she said. “Really. Thank you for your concern. I don’t need any help. You can go now.”

Oh-kay. No Botticelli angels. No leather thongs. Not for him, not tonight. One of the cable TV stations had scheduled a weeklong marathon of Perry Mason reruns; maybe if he went home now he could catch the start. Old television programs and a bowl of popcorn were starting to look good compared to his evening so far.

“You want me to call Marty for you? Since you’re, well, upset.”

Hope took another pull from her drink. “I’m not upset,” she said. “Don’t call Marty on my account. I have to do this myself.”

Tanner looked at her. Hope was an adult, and she was a friend of Marty the Sneak and all those Jersey people, so she had to have a head on her shoulders because Marty was a pro and he didn’t fool around with losers. But people who sat on barstools clutching drinks and telling others that they can handle their problems themselves, usually couldn’t.

Tanner took a sip of his beer, wondering what he could do, what he should do. He probably should just call Marty and have him come and take care of Hope. Whatever the problem was, Marty clearly was already involved in it.

“It’s a long story,” Hope said.

Finally. “I love long stories,” Tanner said, smiling to encourage her. “Tell me.”

The bartender hovered and Tanner waved him away.

“I need to raise a lot of money,” Hope began.

Tanner’s heart sank. Too many lives had been ruined by people who thought they could get rich by gambling or playing cards. It just didn’t happen. In the casino games like roulette, the game was slanted so the house usually won. In cards, winning depended on the players’ skill and the luck of the draw. Tanner himself had played professionally for almost twenty years and had done very well overall. Still, he’d had many, many losing nights. All professional card players had ups and downs.

And now here was Hope McNaughton, with her nice sister Faith, the organic farmer, and niece, Amber, who wanted to be a chef—her nice family no doubt at home, and here was Hope, sitting inebriated on a bar stool, thinking she’d get rich quick.

Gambling could be a sickness, and when he saw people throwing their lives away, it made Tanner angry.

“Go home, Hope,” he said, trying to be gentle. “You don’t need a lot of money. You need to spend time with your family.”

Now Hope sat up very straight, and her eyes blazed. “ ‘I love long stories,’” she mocked his words in a high-toned voice. “ ‘Tell me.’” She brought her voice back to normal, if strident with contempt could be called normal. “First you ask me to tell you, and now you won’t listen. You don’t know what I need.”

“I know that playing cards to get rich quick isn’t the answer.”

“There’s nothing you can tell me about card players,” she snorted. “Vegas would be so much nicer without them.”

“So you want to join the ranks?” Tanner asked, annoyed in spite of himself. “Think about what you’re doing. But think about it at home.”

Hope dug a bill out of her purse and dropped it on the bar, sliding carefully off the stool.

“I’ll go home,” she said, as she walked away, “if you’ll go to hell.”

Tanner watched Hope walk a little too carefully toward the ladies room. That went well. From the moment he’d thought about hot accountants who could cook a guy’s books to the second she told him to go to hell not five minutes later, Tanner had reached a new record in alienating women. Not even Troy could get that mad at him that fast.

The door to the restroom drifted shut after her. She’d probably be all right, but he pulled out his cell phone and called Marty. And then while he waited to make sure that someone came and took care of her, he pulled out a deck of cards and started practicing his old tricks. He needed to be ready next week, when Big Julie would not be too despondent to play cards.



Hope splashed water on her face in the ladies room, feeling the coolness take some of the heat from her cheeks. She was furious with Tanner Wingate, but she knew she was angry because his cautionary words reflected her own fears. She’d been sitting at that bar nursing a drink, terrified and upset at what she’d done.

She’d lost two thousand dollars.

She’d needed to earn the two hundred thousand for her stake, so she’d been playing at the thirty-dollar table. Then, faster than she could have imagined, she was two thousand down. She’d lost a couple of big pots in a dozen or so hands, and when she looked down and saw her chip pile, how small it had shrunk, she’d felt sick. She’d jumped up and left the game.

From her own experience she knew that every card player, even the very best, lost a lot—a lot of hands, and a lot of money. Maybe they lost even most of the time. But if you brought your skill to the table, if you were good, you’d win. If you were good enough, you’d win.

She knew that. But when she’d looked up and seen that she’d lost two thousand dollars in a half-hour, she’d panicked. Run.

Two thousand dollars! All that money, just gone. At that rate, not only would she not raise her stake to play Big Julie for the ranch, but she’d drive her family into the poorhouse before the night was over. She’d lose the ranch and the shirt off their backs, too. They’d wind up worse off than before, if that were possible.

She went into a stall and sat on the toilet seat, looking at the blank metal door. Tanner Wingate had a patronizing, know-it-all attitude, but maybe he was right. Maybe she shouldn’t play cards. Maybe she should just let the ranch go. Maybe that would be better. Two thousand dollars could have bought a lot, if she hadn’t just thrown it away.

On the other side of the stall door, she heard the restroom door open, water run, footsteps recede. To her relief, no line had formed for her stall.

Should she keep playing? Maybe she’d lost her skill, as well as her money. If she couldn’t win, she shouldn’t play. They’d lose the ranch—but at least they wouldn’t be bankrupt as well as homeless.

She heard the door open, an exclamation, the door closed. The restroom was very quiet.

Well, she was done for now. She’d played, she’d lost, and now she was tired and discouraged. This wasn’t the time to push her luck. Tanner Wingate was probably right about one thing: she should go home, at least for tonight.

Opening the stall door, she nearly barreled into Weary Blastell, who was leaning against the restroom wall, his arms crossed over his barrel chest. His shaved black head gleamed in the fluorescent lights of the restroom, his six-foot-five frame seemed to fill the small space.

“So, Little Hope,” he said, uncoiling himself from the wall, “how you doin’?”

Sympathy made her crumble the way anger never would. Tears sprang to her eyes and she felt her chin tremble.

“Oh, Weary,” she said, wiping her eyes, hearing her voice break. “I lost two thousand dollars. And Tanner said—Tanner said—”

Weary Blastell was the happy father of four and grandfather of ten, and a woman’s tears didn’t bother him. He grabbed a handful of tissues and handed them to her.

“Don’t you fret none about what flea that no-good, loudmouth De-troit carpetbagger’s got in his ear,” he said. “You listen to us. That’s why you payin’ us the big bucks.”

Hope laughed, a thin, watery chuckle. She swiped at her eyes with the tissues.

“Okay. But—”

“No buts. You want to do this thing, Hope, you got to go for it. No negative thinking. You get some ups. You get some downs. That’s the business.”

Hope nodded, tossing the tissues in the trash. The uncles had good sense. And guts. Weary seemed to have no discomfort at all waiting for her inside the women’s restroom. That kind of adaptation to circumstances was probably what made them such good card players.

“I keep thinking of it as grocery money,” she said. “Not venture capital.”

“Makes sense,” Weary said, “since you’re underfunded. But you gotta get past that. You need a big stake, so you gotta play big. Playing cards has risks. Like life. You gotta be prepared to lose some. It’s part of winning.”

Hope stared into the mirror for a minute before she answered. “I’ve managed the family finances for so long—I don’t know if I can lose our money this way.”

“Sure you can,” Weary said. “What you talkin’ about? I seen you do it a million times. You just momentarily forgot how is all. That’s what we’re here for. Make you remember the groove. Well, that and the big bucks.”

Hope did remember what it felt like to play cards. She remembered the glow, the rush, the moments of triumph, the times when it seemed like she could do nothing wrong even when she lost a few pots, because she knew before the night was over, she’d be back up again.

She remembered the groove, all right. That was the second thing she was scared of.

Her biggest fear was that she’d lose, and then they’d lose their home. That would change all their lives in ways none of them wanted. And it would be all her fault.

But she was afraid to win, too. Afraid that if she played too long, she’d like it too much. That if she remembered the groove too clearly, she’d never want to leave it. Afraid she’d turn out like her father, with no family, no friends, no roots.

Afraid she’d become addicted, just like her father.

Hope dried her hands on a towel and tossed it into the bin just as a woman entered the restroom. The woman stood there, looking at Weary, the space he took up. Looking uncertain.

“We’re havin’ a conversation here,” Weary said. “You gotta come back later.”

The woman fled the restroom.

“Tell me the truth, Weary,” Hope said. “Can I do this?”

Weary rolled his eyes. “What have I just been sayin’? Yes, you can. We know you can. But not if you don’t stop fussin’ and start playin’ cards,” he said. “How bad do you want the ranch? You want it bad enough, you got to set your thinking straight.”

“I don’t know how to do that, Weary.”

Weary paused, considering. “Okay. First thing. You can’t hold on to your losses. Forget the last hand. You got to approach each hand as fresh.”

“But that’s how Derek played! And he sucked. He played himself into a hole and then he pretended he wasn’t there, so he never came out. He just dug deeper and deeper. Until he’d lost everything.”

“Did I say play like Derek? No. I’m telling you, play each hand with a clear mind. You lost the last pot, you figure out why if you can, but you play your strategy. You try to make up for the last lost pot—yeah, you’re always gonna lose.”

Hope thought about it. Weary was right. She’d fallen into Derek’s bad habits—chasing bad hands when she was down. She’d never played that way before, and she wouldn’t start now.

“Thanks, Weary. I’ll remember that, to play my strategy. Because I’m not going to lose here. I’m going to win.” She had to win. Losing just wasn’t an option.

“That’s the girl.” Weary put his arm around her shoulders and walked her out of the restroom. As they headed for the exit, they passed Tanner at the bar. He was fooling around with a deck of cards, and Hope saw with shock that he was practicing card tricks—dealing off the bottom and palming cards—that were illegal to use in play. She never would have recognized the slight movements for what they were, except that Derek had used—and taught her—those same moves many years ago.

Not that she should jump to conclusions. Lots of people practiced card tricks that they never planned to use in real card games. Lots of people practiced card tricks to wow their friends at parties. Not everyone who could cheat at cards, did cheat.

But for other people, playing was an addition, and cheating was an option when winning didn’t come naturally. When Tanner had lectured her, he’d obviously known what he was talking about. Not that he was in a position to preach.

She was glad she’d never have to play him. She’d never be able to compete against a card cheat.