Page 110 of Snowbound Surrender

“We’re…what?” She shook her head, puffing out a breath of frustration. But her eyes told him that she was fascinated with what they might find.

Randall took hold of the whiskey bottle with one hand and moved it to the center of the table between them. “Every time we lose a hand, we take a drink.”

Her brow flew up.

“Some people call alcohol truth serum. The more you ingest, the more likely you are to say what’s in your heart.”

She shook her head and waved the idea away with one hand. “I don’t need whiskey to say what’s in my heart.”

“No?” He leaned closer to her across the table. “Prove it.”

She pursed her lips and stared flatly at him. “I think you’re a very nice man—most of the time—and a fine friend, and I…I wish you lived here in Mistletoe.” She lowered her head, lashes fluttering.

“Any stranger, any traveling salesman waltzing through the saloon right now, could see that much.” He set his cards down and grabbed the whiskey bottle to pull the cork out. It released with a pop.

Miranda’s gaze jumped up to meet his, frown still in place. “Just because it’s obvious doesn’t mean it isn’t true. I would have thought you’d be flattered that I’ve grown so fond of you so quickly.”

“As I’ve grown fond of you.” He nodded, pointing the cork at her. “Reallyfond of you. But that’s just the point. People do things when they’re fond of one another. Men and women do things.”

She broke eye contact with him, picking up her cards. “Now you’re beginning to sound like Starla or my Uncle Buford.”

He wasn’t quite sure what, but something about her statement made him think he’d stumbled across the heart of the matter. “Why? What do Starla and your Uncle Buford sound like?” With only a brief pause, he went on with, “How many cards do you want?”

“Three.” She took three cards out of her hand and put them on the table.

Randall dealt her three from the deck and watched as her face twitched with excitement and thought. “I’m taking two.” He discarded two cards and took two more from the deck.

Her glance flickered up to meet his. “Now what do we do? We’re supposed to make bets and raise and hold and fold, but we’re not playing that way.”

He hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Simple poker, then. Do you stay or do you fold?”

She peeked at her cards, then at him again. “I stay.”

He nodded. “Me too. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

With an uncertain arch of her eyebrow, she set her cards down. The best she had was a pair of nines. Randall grinned with unexpected relief and laid down his pair of jacks. “I win.”

A disappointed, then anxious look came over her. “So?”

He nodded to the bottle. “So drink.”

She stared at him for a long time, then reached for the bottle.

“Remember, it’s clear glass, even if it’s tinted brown. So I can see if you fake it.”

“I’m not going to fake taking a drink,” she informed him with haughty indignation, then lifted the bottle to her perfect, rosy lips.

She tipped the bottle up, her throat rippled with a swallow, and then she nearly dropped the bottle as she was seized with a gasping, choking cough. Her eyes began to water.

“Easy there.” Randle chuckled, his humor returning. “No need to lose and prove me right in one hand.”

“What?” she choked. “Prove you right about what?”

“About why you’re so twisted around the axle right now.”

“I am not twisted around the axle.” Her voice and her breathing slowly returned to normal. She pushed the bottle back to the center of the table as Randall gathered the cards and shuffled for another hand.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said as he dealt them each five cards once more.