I say nothing. The truck rumbles back to life, the wipers jumping too fast across the glass, and Ryder pulls back out onto the road.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU TWO TAKE your time or what?” says Damian when we walk into the cabin after restarting the generator.
“Got caught in the rain,” Ryder says. “Had to pull over and wait it out.”
Damian’s mouth twitches, one brow lifting—a look halfway between suspicion and amusement.
“Sure,” he says, drawing the word out. The implication stings.
Inside, the cabin is gray, the fire the only light. Wyatt’s stretched out on the couch under a blanket, Jake’s in the chair, Damian’s cross-legged on the floor. They’re all holding a fan of cards.
“Thank God,” Wyatt says. “Can’t even see the cards anymore.”
Ryder goes around and turns on the lamps, while I drop the candy bag on the coffee table. “We brought snacks.”
“Thought you two were never getting back,” says Jake, with a trace of the same irony Damian had. Neither Ryder nor I say anything.
“Pull up a seat,” Wyatt says, swinging his legs down to the floor and nodding at the sagging cushions beside him.
I sink down at the far end, tucking my feet underneath me, but Ryder says he’s going to make dinner and heads into the kitchen.
“What are we playing?” I ask as the men toss their cards into a loose pile on the coffee table. Damian taps the stack together and starts shuffling with quick, neat flicks of his wrist.
“Five-card draw,” he says. “Little to no math.”
He deals me in with brisk precision, one card each around in a circle, until we all have five cards.
“I know this game,” I say, flipping my cards up just enough to peek at them. Four black cards—the ace of spades, ace of clubs, eight of spades, and eight of clubs, and one red, the five of hearts. “Played it in one of my foster homes growing up.”
I set the five of hearts down and pick up the five of clubs. Play moves around the circle. Jake discards two, Damian one, Wyatt none at all.
Wyatt reaches for the candy bag and rips open the licorice. “Call,” he says, throwing a twist of licorice on the table like it’s a poker chip.
We all reveal at once. Jake has a pair of tens. Damian’s got four in a row. Wyatt has three queens.
“Two pairs,” I say, laying my cards down last, fanned out on the scarred wood.
Wyatt straightens in surprise at my hand. “Hey! Look at that.”
Jake leans forward. “Oh, no way. She pulled the Dead Man’s Hand.”
“What does it mean?” I ask. “Is it cursed? Do I win something? Do I die? What’s the vibe here?”
Damian gives me the kind of look men save for women who’ve never seenDie Hard.
“Young one,” he sighs. “Wild Bill Hickok?”
I shrug, and Jake laughs, reaching over to squeeze my knee.
“You forget,” he says to Damian, “Maximillian here is only a child.”
“Fuck off,” I say with a laugh, pushing his hand.
“The name comes from history,” Wyatt says. “Wild Bill Hickok. Old West legend, gunfighter, lawman, gambler. He got shot in the back during a poker game while holding this hand.”
“This is Wyatt’s favorite story,” Jake says with a grin.
