Bluegrass Seduction (The Bluegrass Billionaire Trilogy Book 1) by Alice Ward, Jessica Blake Page B

calling for taxing land that wasn’t in crop production and raising inheritance taxes. This flew directly in the faces of the men in this very room, but the candidate had some momentum and he was forcing the others to talk about the topic. This made men in here nervous.
    I overheard Clinton McLean. In fact, most everyone could since he’d been there for some time and was well into his private bottle. His voice raised in volume as he drank. Everyone knew he was having financial problems, primarily as a result of divorcing Mrs. McLean, whose legs had spread for a few other men but more importantly, whose family had provided the backing to buy his thoroughbred farm. It sounded as if his place would go to the attorneys.
    I had enough of my father in me to buy him another bottle and slide over to the stool next to where he sat.
    “McLean,” I acknowledged and he raised the bottle in salute. He wore the requisite wool jacket with patch sleeves and he reeked of booze. Even in this environment of well-worn couture, he stood out as having seen better days.
    “Thank you, young LaViere.”
    “Couldn’t help but hear you might be putting the farm on the market. Any truth to that?”
    He looked upward, as if seeking guidance, blew a smoke ring toward the antique tin ceiling and nodded. “It’s a fact,” he confirmed.
    “Remind me, how many acres?” I asked casually.
    “Well now, the house sits on a twenty or so, the barns and farm manager’s house on another thirty. There’s two hundred in tobacco base and another two thousand fenced for pasture. What’s that add up to?” His mind was beyond the math.
    “She’s to get it all, I take it?” I asked.
    He belched loudly and froze for a moment as if considering whether more of his stomach contents were to follow. “Every fuckin’ thing. What the two-timin’ whore won’t get, the lawyers will take.”
    “That’s unfortunate,” I sympathized, to which he nodded.
    “McLean, what do you say we get your mind off this for a bit and have a nice, friendly game of cards?”
    He considered this and smiled. “Don’t mind if I do,” he responded and we adjourned to the room beyond the bar. This was a cooler, cleaner atmosphere and the furnishings were sparse. There were a few gaming tables and I headed to one of the poker rounds and took a seat. Most of the crowd from the bar had overheard and followed us inside.
    McLean took his seat. A couple of others attempted to sit in, but I waved them off. This game was between McLean and me. I wanted witnesses but no more players. There were grumbles of ungentlemanly behavior as a few glared at me, tugging at their pipes in admonishment.
    It was child’s play. McLean quickly lost the meager pile of cash he had on him, so I raised the stakes. He looked around for someone to stake him, but was met with opaque stares. He was flushed, beginning to feel ill. I saw the time was right.
    I pushed everything I had into the center of the table, twenty thousand at best. “McLean, I have a proposition for you. Let’s play one more hand. I’ll bet everything I have on the table and you put up your farm.”
    The groan of disapproval was loud around the room. There was even some movement to indicate a few were preparing to drag either McLean or me outside, but we were all gentlemen and as such, responsible for our personal behavior. It was their code that prevented them from interfering.
    McLean considered my proposal but his eyes were fixed on the pile of cash in the center of the table. He reasoned that he had little to lose and untraceable cash to gain, so he finally nodded in assent.
    It was quick work. My three of a kind beat his pair of aces and there was a general uproar of disapproval throughout the club.
    I pulled the cash toward me and then extracted five, one-hundred dollar bills. I pushed them toward McLean and said in a voice that those close by could hear, “It’s been an honor, sir. This is for our bar bill and I expect you to