11
JACKSON
Jeffries raked the small pile of money towards him across the worn table. His grin was unusual to see; the man rarely won at Poker and rarely drank. Perhaps a large amount of whiskey was necessary to help his skill.
“Bet you're glad to be heading home,” he said, reaching down to pick up a coin that had rolled onto the floor.
“You could have told me why you came to escort me back. I thought I was needed for a mission.”
The man rolled his eyes—definitely a sign of inebriation—and tossed up his hands. “You remind me every ten minutes, plus my j aw still hurts where you punched me.” He raised his hand to the place where my left hook had struck him once he'd dragged me to Fort Tallmadge and lined me up with others for commendations. I hadn't been called back for duty. I hadn't b
