Devil in Texas(13)

She'd laughed up at him with those wicked, golden tiger's eyes. "You'll always be that green-as-grass boy I taught how to rut."

Cass forced himself to drag his wits about him. He glared at the thief. "Take off your hat."

"You want it?" Another saucy dimple peeked. "Come and get it, hotshot."

Cass's patience was rapidly unraveling. He stalked closer, defying popguns, blinding powder, and anything else the thief might throw. "Think you're something special, eh?"

"If you say so."

A breeze stirred the draperies. The masculine scents of leather and horse wafted to Cass, along with the feminine fragrance of rosehips.

Sadie's favorite tea.

Cass frowned.

Now he was close enough to notice anomalies beneath the man's derby: cheeks too smooth to be a graybeard's. A mustache that was just a hair off balance. Lips that were pink and kissably soft.

Cass halted, his heart slamming into his ribs. His brain told his senses they were liars, but his heart couldn't give up the hope. Sadie and Sterne were old flames. If she'd survived the Satin Siren, if she'd feared for her life, maybe she would have disguised herself to seek the Ranger for protection.

Cass reached a shaking hand. He knocked the derby off the thief's head.

Eyes as hot as golden brands burned into his. Cass sucked in his breath. In the next instant, a boot struck his forearm. His gun went flying. The second drop-kick plowed into his midsection like a battering ram.

"Son of a—" Cass stumbled to his knees, winded.

Sadie fled for the stairs, a snarling coon in hot pursuit. Desperately, Cass dug inside a trouser pocket and hurled pecans after Vandy's head. The eager moocher veered, scrabbling over the glint of gold that spilled from Sadie's neck. Collie muttered something about traitors and reached for the pistol in his bodice.

"No!" Cass tackled the boy's legs. They crashed to the carpet, rolling over Sadie's necklace in a tangle of limbs and lace.

"What the hell's the matter with you?" Collie struggled to free the gun arm Cass had pinned.

"That's Sadie!"

"Sadie's dead!"

She paused to look back, that wicked dimple flirting with her lips. One last smirk for his embarrassment. One last sigh for all that might have been. Then, with an audacious wink, she wrenched open the door to her freedom.

"You'll wish you were dead when I'm through with you!" Cass bellowed after that lusciously sweet ass.

Her husky laughter echoed in the stairwell.

Collie freed a fist and punched him in the head. "Get off me, lunatic!"

By this time, a dozen hotel guests in nightcaps were poking their heads into the hall, watching in horror as Cass and Collie flopped on the carpet like a couple of beached whales. Cass cursed vehemently, trying to free his legs from the strips of taffeta his spurs were shredding.

Just when he didn't think a man could get any more humiliated, the elevator bell dinged. Marshal Wright stepped into the hall, accompanied by none other than Rexford Sterne.

The cagey old wolf raised pewter eyebrows. "Well now. What have we here?"

Cass froze as gun hammers clicked above his head. His arch nemesis loomed over him, grinning like a small dog with a big bone.

"Why, if it isn't the Rebel Rutter. And Coon Collie, too. Doing it in public now, boys?" A rare levity lighted the ex-Ranger's steel-colored eyes. "Damn, kid. You sure make one ugly woman."





Chapter 5



For a man who wanted to wear a badge, Cass had seen the inside of way too many jail cells. Usually, he was arrested for misdemeanors, like dancing a drunken jig on a faro table, or taking potshots at some crabby old merchant's sign. Townsfolk with railroad spikes up their butts didn't like roostered cowboys causing mischief—which was fine by Cass. Arrest got him a free meal and a free bunk, where he could sleep off his busthead.

Needless to say, after spending so much idle time behind bars, Cass knew how to break out of jail. He carried three lock picks in his clothing. Most tin-stars, he was sorry to say, were dumber than fence posts. Finding Widdy #1, in his hatband, satisfied them. The rare few who kept searching never found Widdy #3, which Cass had stashed inside his boot heel.

Nevertheless, Cass didn't bust himself out of jail unless he had some emergency reason to reach the outside. Losing a prisoner was an ugly blemish on a lawman's career, and Cass figured that keeping friendly relations was good business. He knew his failings, and sure-as-shootin', he was going to get drunk and wind up in jail again. In fact, the first time he'd seen the inside of Sidney Wright's hoosegow was back in '78. At the time, Wright had been a deputy in Round Rock. He'd gotten promoted after Cass tipped him off about the whereabouts of notorious bank robber, Sam Bass. Needless to say, Sid had a soft spot for Cass. More importantly, he knew he could count on Cass's guns in a pinch, when serious outlaws were stealing payrolls or endangering honest folks.

Sid also knew his iron palace lacked certain creature comforts—like ventilation. So the marshal took pity on his only prisoners, hauling in a bucket of ice and some bottles of sarsaparilla (most of which Vandy guzzled, burping bubbles the rest of the night.) Breaking open a new deck of cards, Sid dealt rounds of Coon-Can while he commiserated with Cass about overbearing Rangers and conniving redheads. They chewed the fat about the drought, Lampasas's booming tourist trade, and Sid's vigilante-granger problem until 3 a.m., at which time Collie, with his usual flair for the cussid, hurled a boot at their heads and bellowed that he was trying to get some shut-eye.

Around 10 o'clock the next morning, Sid was rousing them with cups of java when the jail door crashed open. Poppy Westerfield stood on the threshold, disrupting the friendly, all-male atmosphere. Beneath a jaunty, peacock-colored bonnet and fashionably frizzed bangs, her emerald eyes glittered like ice.

"Marshal Wright, are you, or are you not, responsible for the safety of the dignitaries who visit your town?"

"Well, of course I'm responsible—"

"Good," Poppy snapped, sailing into Sid's office like a battleship at full steam. "Because when my husband gets gunned down by a vigilante granger, I shall see that your head rolls!"

Sid blinked.

Cass coughed to hide his amusement. He suspected no woman had ever talked to Sid in such a manner, especially in his office.

But Poppy's temerity was born from confidence. Petite and slender, with a mature beauty that could still turn men's heads, the 41-year-old social maven thrived in her role. As the wife of a rich and powerful senator, she didn't resort to eye-batting, tears, or swoons to control "lesser men"—which was the term she used to describe anyone who ranked lower than Baron in public office.

"In precisely one hour, my husband is due to give his speech at the sodbuster's convention," Poppy announced in an imperious manner. "Considering the way tempers are simmering in this town, Mr. Cassidy's guns may be the only things that stand between my dear, beloved Baron and a bushwhacker's bullet. I want you to release Cass this minute. This minute, do you hear me?"

Collie never missed a stroke with his whittling knife. "Don't put yourself out on my account, ma'am."

Cass nearly snorted java up his nose.

"Now see here, Mrs. Westerfield." Sid didn't look half as amused. "Cass and Collie got charged with vandalism and three separate counts of disturbing the peace by the Adjutant-General himself—"

"Rexford Sterne retired from the Ranger Force nearly a month ago," Poppy fired back, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "To challenge my husband's re-election campaign, as you'll recall. Unless, of course, you've been apprised of some palm-greasing skullduggery that Baron should bring to Governor Ireland's attention?"