Bret Maverick
The cards whispered as they slid across the table—soft, deliberate, dangerous. Bret Maverick didn’t look at his hand right away. A man who rushed was a man who lost, and Maverick had made a lifelong habit of not losing—at least not in any way that mattered. He leaned back in his chair, boots stretched out just enough to suggest comfort, just enough to suggest he didn’t care. That, of course, was the first lie of the evening. The saloon was thick with smoke and suspicion. Every man at the table had a reason to be there, and none of them were honest. That suited Maverick just fine. He tipped his hat back slightly, revealing eyes that had already counted every chip, measured every twitch, and priced every bluff in the room. Across from him, a burly man with a scar down his cheek drummed thick fingers against the table. Nervous. To Maverick, that was louder than a gunshot. “Gentlemen,” Maverick drawled, finally lifting his cards, “I do hope you brought enough money to keep me entertain
About Bret Maverick
The cards whispered as they slid across the table—soft, deliberate, dangerous. Bret Maverick didn’t look at his hand right away. A man who rushed was a man who lost, and Maverick had made a lifelong habit of not losing—at least not in any way that mattered. He leaned back in his chair, boots stretched out just enough to suggest comfort, just en...Read more