Clink...clink...clink...

The metallic sound of spurs travelled through the air—this time accompanied by the rustling of petticoats. Lifting my skirt, I glanced down at the glint of metal down below.

Yes. I was wearing spurs under my dress. Bite me.

"Hold it right there!" Just as I was about to step into town, a man appeared from around a corner, rifle in hand. "Who are ya, and what ya doing here?"

"Um...going into town?" I answered, plastering a confused expression on my face. "Is there a problem with that?"

"We're looking for a dangerous desperado!"

"And..." I glanced down at my voluminous skirts, then looked up again meaningfully. "Do I look like one to you?"

"Err...guess not." The man cleared his throat. "Sorry, miss. Go right in."

"Thank you." Giving a small curtsy, I stepped past the guard. I didn't start grinning until I was around the corner.

Within the town, there still were plenty of guards patrolling, though not nearly as many as before. Apparently, most had changed their patrol routes so they were now patrolling around a fairly luxurious house on a hill in the distance. I smirked, remembering my little shenanigans last night. Hm...I wonder why? Was there someone feeling a teensy-weensy bit nervous about mad dynamite throwers, perhaps?

All the better for me, of course. Whistling, I strode down the main street, inspecting the various curiosities and fascinating things on display in shop windows. Books, sweets, a man with a torture instrument ripping out his victim's tooth accompanied by agonizing screa—

All right, maybe not all things in the shop windows were so fascinating.

"Miss! Miss, am I seeing correctly? Oh, thank God! Wait!"

Startled, I glanced around—only to come face-to-face with three harpies from the pits of hell. Or women, but that was pretty much the same thing if said women tried to make googly-eyes at my husband.

Narrowing my eyes, I inspected the mother harpy and her two minions.

"Yes?"

The next instant I found myself engulfed in a hug. "Oh, miss, you don't know how happy I am to see you!"

"I—can—guess!" I wheezed, trying to wrestle free. Unsuccessfully.

"We were on the way to San Francisco for an important matter, but those horrid men with rifles would not even let us through when we told them we absolutely must visit my grandmother's second cousin's daughter for her engagement party! Can you imagine?"

"Yes. Yes, I think I can."

"Instead, we were told we had to stay in this ghastly little backwater of a town. And all because some lowlife decided to escape from prison! Oh, if only I could get my hands on that piece of scum...!"

"Ehem. Well..."

"And now you are here!" She squealed and squeezed me again. "In this town full of philistines and sandhogs, I thought I would never find another woman, let alone a civilized young lady such as yourself! Come along, dear, come along! We simply must have a talk! There's a tea salon over there, where we all can get some tea and biscuits! But...strange? Why did they spell salon with a double-o?"

Remember, Lilly. These are the ones who wanted to steal your brand-new husband.

I grinned.

"I don't know. Let's find out, shall we?"

Linking arms with the mother and daughters, who seemed to be quite startled by my sudden enthusiasm, I dragged them towards the batwing doors and straight into the saloon.

"Oh, you seem enthusiastic all of a sudden, dear. Craving a cup of tea as well, are yo—oh my goodness gracious, what is that awful smell!"

"Welcome to the saloon. Isn't it picturesque?"

"Agh! Gagh!"

"Come along, Madam! You're looking for suitors for your lovely daughters, aren't you? Those gentlemen over there look nice!"

Grinning, I slumped in an empty chair, and waved at the four grimy, gap-toothed grunts who were swilling, smoking, and playing poker.

"Hello, gentlemen! That looks like a fascinating game you are playing there. What is its name? What do all the pretty pictures on the cards mean? Can we learn to play, too?"

The men stared at me for a long moment—then turned to grin at each other, displaying their missing teeth to great effect.

"Sure, sweetheart! We'd love to...play with you."

"Um..." Mrs Eloise Grant cleared her throat. "Are you sure this is such a good idea, Miss?"

"Of course! Just look at those sweet, innocent faces!" I gestured at the mugs of the crooks around me. "You can just tell they're true gentlemen, helpful, warm-hearted and honourable."

"Um...yes?"

The hesitant mother and daughters found themselves dragged down into chairs and firmly stuck between the smirking men.

"So..." I enquired eagerly, batting my eyelashes at the man with the fewest teeth, who, following Wild West logic, obviously had to be the best at gambling. "How do you play this game?"

"Well..." the man's grin widened. "The first thing you do is put all your money on this pile in the centre of the table here..."

The man began describing the rules of poker in a highly intriguing and unusual kind of way. My oh my! I had never known the rules of this game had changed so much since I'd last played it with Amy, oh, about...three weeks ago? That was really impressive. And it was so kind of this gentleman to explain to me all the ways in which poker had suddenly become riskier and far more expensive. Weren't they wonderfully nice men? To repay them, I would have to do my very best at gambling.

Just as I was about to reach for my cards, I heard the creak of the door, followed by a strangled sort of croak from the surrounding patrons. Glancing up, I caught sight of a certain turbaned mountain who had just stepped into the saloon and was staring at where I sat among the heavily armed desperados.

I waved.

Karim raised his hand to wave back—before he realized what the hell he was doing, slapped his hand down and sent me a glare. A glare that shifted to a look of horror when he saw what I was wearing, what I was doing, and who I was doing it with.

Go find my hubby, I mouthed. I think I'm gonna need some extra money!

I had never seen Karim run so fast before.

"Now, gentlemen," I said, turning back to the men at the table with a broad smile. "Do I hold the cards with the pretty pictures facing towards or away from me?"

***

Silence had descended over the saloon. This was not, as one might suspect, due to the fact that it was the establishment's closing time. It wasn't even due to, God forbid, Mr Rikkard Ambrose being present and glaring at the patrons. No, the silence in the saloon was mostly due to the fact that every single person present was staring open-mouthed at a certain table in the centre of the floor.

"Now," I asked, innocently, "what does it mean when you've got a king, queen, some random fellow, as well as a ten, and an...ace? All in the same colour?"

"That," one of the men at the table squeezed out between clenched teeth, "is called a royal flush."

"Ooh!" Glancing between the men and the giant heap of winnings in front of me, I batted my eyelashes up at them. "So, does that mean I've got to find a queen's bathroom now?"

The man's fingers twitched, moving just a little towards his revolver. "No. That means you win everything."

"Does it, now?" A delighted smile spread across my face, and instantly, I swept up any and all money within reach. "Why, thank you so much! I would never have known!"

"Is that right?" the man growled, his teeth grinding audibly. "You seem...amazingly lucky."

"Yes, spiffing, isn't it?" Nodding jovially, I started counting money. One hundred dollars, two hundred dollars...hm, that chubby fellow with the weird hairdo was looking more and more handsome. "Let's play another round!"

"Ehem..." The older Grant, glancing at her daughters, whose eyes were gleaming with freshly-awakened gambling addiction, cleared her throat. "Mrs...Ambrose, was it? I am not quite sure this card game is an entirely appropriate pastime for ladies of good breeding."

"Oh, don't worry!" With a reassuring smile, I waved around at the scantily dressed women scattered through the saloon, serving drinks and flirting with the men. "I'm sure there's plenty of breeding going on in this place. Some of it might even be good."

"Um...yes, but...errr...I..." Suddenly, Mrs Grant's eyes fell on the empty table in front of her, and she brightened. "I am sorry, but I suddenly realize I seem to have run out of funds for the day," the middle-aged lady stated with entirely too much joy for someone who had just realized they were broke.

My smile widened. "Don't you worry! A really good friend of mine from East London told me about a variety of poker that can be played even if people don't have any money!"

"Um...is that so?"

"Oh, yes." Leaning over to the older woman, I nodded happily, giving her my most innocent, convincing look. "It's called strip poke—"

"What. Are. You. Doing. Here?"

Ah...

The icy voice from behind me was like a cool drink on a hot day. Like a snowflake tickling my nose atop my own personal ice palace. Although, by the looks of it, the rest of the customers didn't really share my sudden happiness.

"Dicky Darling!" Beaming, I turned around and reached out to give my dear husband a loving slap on the butt. My hand got about as far as three inches before a much stronger hand wrapped around my wrist, stopping me cold.

A familiar pair of dark, sea-coloured eyes stared down at me. "First. Do not call me that. Second. Do not do that. Third. What are you doing here?"

"Playing poker," I explained helpfully. "It is a card game in which two to seven players wager a sum of money—or various pieces of underwear—on which hand is the best. There are a variety of deck configurations, which—"

"I know what poker is," his arctic voice cut me off like a freshly-polished scalpel. "What I do not know is what my wife is doing in an establishment such as this."

Suddenly, the four men around the table seemed to be wishing themselves very, very far away. Yet, for some reason, their butts seemed to be frozen to their chairs.

"So..." asked Miss Melanie Grant, "I guess that means we can't marry him?"

Nobody paid attention to her.

All eyes in the room were focused on Mr Rikkard Ambrose. With heavy steps, he repositioned himself until he stood directly behind the four thugs who by now were sweating bullets.

"Now..." One stone-hard hand each landed on the shoulders of the closest men. "Shall we play a different game?"

***

The wind whistled. A wooden sign creaked in the breeze. In the distance, the gurgles of a horse-thief being lynched by a mob echoed through the street. On a corner of a street, a guy in a poncho smoked a cigar in a particularly cool way while he contemplated whom he'd shoot later today. All in all, a typical day in the Wild West.

Wham!

The door to the saloon burst open and four hairy men in their underwear rushed out into the street.

The poncho man's cigar dropped out of his mouth. Well, maybe not so typical. These guys didn't even have the decency to be tarred and feathered!

Shrugging, he pulled out another cigar, and continued contemplating homicide.

***

Inside the saloon, Mr Rikkard Ambrose sat at the table counting the winnings.

My winnings.

Sidling up to him from behind, I slid an arm around his neck in a conjugal gesture of affection, and excellent starting position for a future stranglehold.

"Say, my dear husband...aren't those mine?"

He cocked his head. "We're married. What's mine is yours, and more importantly, what's yours is mine. Correct?"

I considered that for a moment—then, grinning, put a hand on a specific spot where the two legs of his trousers met, underneath the table. "Definitely. Remind me of that principle tonight, will you?"

Mr Ambrose stiffened.

"Still..." I shook my head at him disapprovingly, "I'm rather disappointed."

Mr Rikkard Ambrose glanced down at the spot where my hand was located, then up at me again, raising his eyebrow about half a millimetre. "Disappointed?"

"Oh yes, indeed." Grinning, I jabbed a thumb towards the exit, where the batwing doors were still swinging back and forth. "You let them keep their underpants on."

His eyes bored into mine. "I may not yet be the most experienced of husbands, Mrs Ambrose, but I am fairly certain removing other men's underwear in the presence of your wife is not common practise."

"Is that so?"

"Indeed it is, Mrs. Ambrose." He threw a look sideways to where the three women were still sitting dazed at the table. With all of their clothes on, incidentally. "Since we're on the subject of gambling away underwear, Mrs Ambrose, should I also have acquired these ladies' clothes and underwea—"

I held up my hand. "Forget I said anything."

His cold eyes sparkled. "I surmised as much."

Harrumph!

Folding my arms, I glared down at him.

"And, Mrs Ambrose..."

"Yes, Mr Ambrose, Sir?"

"Do. Not. Ever. Do. Something. Like. This. Again."

"Win lots of money, you mean?"

"No. That was not what I meant." Leaning towards me, he pinned me in place with his eyes, his perfect face only inches away from mine. Suddenly, I found my poker winnings a lot less intriguing. "I was referring to the fact that I was just at the mayor's office, trying to show him the error of his ways in welcoming the Spaniards and attempting to convince him how...beneficial it would be to support me, when suddenly, a certain someone comes rushing into the room to inform me that my dear wife is sitting in a local den of iniquity, drinking and gambling with a gang of hooligans."

"Well, in my defence, they were an easy mark."

He did not seem amused. "I told you to stay at the house, Mrs Ambrose."

I raised an eyebrow. "And when have I ever been one to do what I was told?"

"You don't understand!" He very nearly growled, lowering his voice. "I told you to stay for a reason! They knew I was coming to this town, and made preparations! They called for—"

Clink...clink...clink...

Once more, the ominous sound of jingling spurs echoed through the saloon. And this time, they were not attached to my fashionable footwear.

The saloon doors swung open, and a shadow fell across the dusty floor.

"Well, now...what do we have here?"

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My dear Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen,

In case you were wondering about the difference between a salon and saloon - the former, as in a "tea salon" is a refined place where noble ladies in Victorian times used to meet to enjoy their afternoon tea. As for what a saloon is...well, I'd suggest that you watch a western ;-) Suffice it to say that afternoon tea is usually not served there.

Yours Truly

Sir Rob

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GLOSSARY:

Batwing doors—this is actually what those typical swinging doors on an old western saloon are called. Unfortunately, it doesn't have anything to do with a certain dark knight in a bat costume.