Southern Ladies and Gentlemen Gamblers
Prologue
"Get out, Beauregard." It was said quietly, dispassionately, with no warmth or emotion. Not revulsion, hatred, or pity, which was surprising even to her.
"Belle, please, listen to me – "
"Get out, Beauregard." Now she turned to face him, and saw the tears running down his cheeks. It didn't matter. At that moment she was numb; wounded so badly she could no longer feel anything. And even though all she wanted to do was hurt him the way he'd hurt her, there was nothing left inside her to hurt him with.
"If you'll just let me explain – "
"Get out, Beauregard." It was like a mantra she kept repeating over and over. It was easy – all he had to do was walk out the door; she would close it behind him and be done with him forever. But for some reason he wouldn't heed the simple words, and continued to stand in front of her like Chester Riley's old hound dog used to. She could pick up something and throw it at him, but she didn't have the energy. For some reason the few simple words he'd said to her – "I spent last night with your sister Grace" – had taken not only her breath and her emotions, but all her strength.
He took two steps forward and reached for her, she took two steps backward and evaded his grasp. Then she saw it – her way out. His derringer lay on the table, right next to her. He took another step and she grabbed the small gun and pointed it at him.
She said it one more time. "Get out, Beauregard."
He put his hands up in front of him and his dark eyes flashed at her. "Put the gun down, Isabelle. You're not going to shoot me."
That's where he was wrong. She pulled the trigger on the derringer and saw him stagger as the shot hit it's mark. A blood spot appeared rapidly on his left shoulder and he grabbed for it and cried out, staring at her as if he'd seen the devil incarnate. Without another word of protest he grabbed his coat and rushed past her and out the door, never looking back. She set the gun down on the table and a smile crept slowly across her lips. "And stay out," she called to the closed door, relieved that she'd finally gotten him to leave.
Bart stared at his father, a look of sheer horror on his face. "She shot you? Momma shot you?"
Beau nodded his head slowly. "She sure did, son. Just glad derringers only had one shot in those days. Otherwise you and your brother never woulda been born."
