High Wild Desert by Ralph Cotton

more puffs on the cigarette, stubbed it down onto the windowsill.
All right.
Anybody can be a good loser. They learn it from plenty of practice. Being a good winner requires something different, a whole other kind of light in your head, he thought. It’s a different feel in your guts. It isn’t hard to quit when you lose because you’re forced to quit when there’s nothing left.
    But winning? He let out a long breath.
Damn!
Winning took more of something, though he wasn’t sure what. Enough of this. He dismissed the matter, turned and walked straight to room seven, where Anna Rose told him she would be.
    â€œNow you’re starting to make sense,” he said to himself under his breath. He turned the knob on the unlocked door, stepped inside and locked the door behind him.
    Anna Rose was lying in a large feather bed. In the soft flicker of a candle lantern, Oldham watched her throw back a sheet, stand up naked from the bed and walk to him. Through the half-opened door to a smaller room, Oldham saw an ornate bathing tub. Steam curled up from a frothy head of hot, soapy water.
    â€œWell, there you are,” she said softly. “I was starting to feel neglected.” She stopped close in front of him and tugged his dusty shirttail up from his trousers. On the nightstand beside the flickering candle lantern, Oldham saw his winnings neatly resting in four stacks.
    â€œGod forbid such a thing while I’m around,” he said to her, his arms wrapping around her, feeling her skin warm and creamy against him.
    She pressed her face into his chest.
    â€œTake off your boots. I’ll take off the rest,” she whispered, drawing circles on his chest lightly with her fingertip. “Let me get you lathered, rinsed and dried, all very slowly.”
    â€œI can hardly wait.” Oldham smiled as she stepped back enough for him to pull off his dirty boots. She took his hand and led him into the other room, to the steaming bathtub. She unfastened his gun belt and set it aside. She loosened his trousers and started to pull them down. He smiled a little to himself, seeing a bottle of rye standing on a small table beside the tub.
    Oh
yes, you’re on a streak, pard, and this is what winning’s all about
.
    But before Anna Rose could lower his trousers, he put his hand on hers, stopping her.
    â€œWait,” he said, “there’s something I’ve got to do first.”
    She watched him fasten his trousers and walk around to the bottle of rye, pour himself a double shot in a glass and swirl it around.
    â€œDrink up, there’s plenty more,” she said, and added, “I drink too.” She smiled.
    â€œSorry,” Oldham said, quickly upturning another clean glass and pouring rye into it for her. She noted a seriousness that had suddenly set in on his face. His hand quickened, almost shook a little as he poured the rye. His eyes grew remote, distant, as he turned and handed her the glass—something she never saw men do, especially with her standing naked in front of them.
    â€œIs something wrong?” she asked, reaching a hand up, cupping his cheek.
    â€œNo, not at all,” he said. But instead of responding to her advances, he sipped the rye, stopped, then tossed it back all at once. He turned away and poured himself another drink.
    Yes, something was wrong. She’d seen men act this way before. She sipped her rye and observed for a moment while he drank in silence and stared down at the glass in his hand. Had she pushed him too much, too far at once? That was something a girl had to be careful not to do. Some of these men hadn’t seen a woman in weeks,
months
. For many of them the drinking and gambling had to come first.
    Some men had to first sate themselves with their other vices before they could handle a woman. This one had not struck her as being that way, but maybe she’d been wrong—she’d been wrong before.
    She set her rye down and