"The bathhouse is located outside of town," Cass reminded her politely. "Sid's jurisdiction is limited to Lampasas."
"What a lot of rubbish. A crime is a crime. Who cares if a sheriff, a marshal, or a Ranger makes the arrest? It's a lawman's sworn duty to protect decent folks from outlaws!"
"Well... it is true lawmen need a little help now and then. That's why Baron hired me and Collie."
"Oh, Cass. Don't you see? My husband hired private security to protect us from that overbearing tyrant, Rexford Sterne. You're the only gunfighter in this town with the nerve—and the skill—to stand up to his badge-wearing bullies."
Cass averted his eyes. As much as he wanted to think that Sterne was an unholy bastard, he wanted to cling even more to his ideal that Rangers were noble. All his life, Cass had wanted to be someone whom other men respected. The kind of person whom women loved and little kiddies admired. He knew he could never go back and fix the mistake he'd made at the age of 13, when he'd gone vigilante, drawing too fast and plugging Abel Ainsworth before the Ku Klux Klansman could turn all the way around to face his doom. That split second of adolescent rage, of wanting to avenge Cousin Bobby's brutal murder, had forced Cass to spend his life running from the law, rather than enforcing it.
Still, in his heart, he tried to be worthy of Rangerhood: to fight for right. To protect the innocent. To defend the weak. That's what being a Ranger meant to him.
"You needn't worry about Baron, ma'am," Cass said gruffly. "Tito knows how to handle ruffians. He'll look after Baron when I'm off duty. Besides, most chuckleheads who strap on guns do it for show. They're slow to draw."
"I suspect that's how Marshal Wright got his job," Poppy said disdainfully. "Frankly, I don't think that man would recognize a crime unless he stumbled over a corpse!"
Slowing her steps, she peered into the milliner's window, with its tuxedo-wearing scarecrow and cheerful jack-o-lanterns. Each pumpkin was topped with a witch's hat that sported multi-patterned orange bows. Poppy worried her bottom lip as she stared at the display—or perhaps at the wall clock.
"Cass, you were good to me once, when I needed a friend." She turned to face him again, her expression troubled. "I haven't forgotten how you tried to comfort me that day in the calving barn."
Uh-oh. Cass's insides squirmed. He hadn't been expecting her to revisit that topic.
"You were only 17," she murmured. "Remember?"
Yeah, he remembered, all right. He'd found Poppy crying her eyes out after her second miscarriage and trying to slit her wrists with a whittling knife.
"That kind of sensitivity is so rare in a youth..." Her eyes filled with tears. "And now look at you. A full-grown man, putting your life on the line for my husband. I can't let you get hurt, Cass. It wouldn't be just."
"Uh... thanks, Mrs. Westerfield. But it's my job to make sure you and Baron stay safe. It's what I'm good at. That's why Baron hired me."
She nodded reluctantly, giving a watery sniff and tightening her hold on his arm. "I'm so glad my husband found you."
There it is again. That, 'My Husband,' thing.
They continued their stroll toward the half-constructed, limestone courthouse at the center of the Square. The gothic structure was already imposing, even without its clock tower, which the Tejano laborers would eventually erect above the red-slate tiles of the mansard roof.
Poppy grimaced at the Spanish-speaking workers, many of whom were swearing and whipping their mules. Playing the damsel-in-distress, she dragged Cass closer—so close, he couldn't fail to see her flushed skin, dilated eyes, and fluttering pulse. The scent of violets rolled off her breasts like an invisible fog. He was a little surprised by all these sexual signals. Poppy had always seemed too distant for a flirtation.
The truth was, Cass had never been opposed to affairs with married women—or older women, for that matter. Sadie was three years his senior, and when she licked her lips, smiling at his crotch, she could damned near pop the buttons of his fly.
Wilma could shrug off a skimpy lace nightdress in a downright dastardly way—one that never failed to make him salivate, even if she was old enough to be his mother.
But Poppy?
Cass winced to imagine his boss's weepy wife, mourning the ghosts of dead babies and lying like a sack of potatoes in his bed.
Poppy wouldn't be much fun.
Suddenly, she halted between the Commercial Saloon and a driverless wagon, piled high with beer kegs. Cass braced himself, expecting a temperance tirade. To his surprise, she ignored the liquor.
"That footpad at the Globe Hotel got me thinking," she confessed. Tears glimmered on her lashes as she raised beseeching eyes to his. "Baron has so many night meetings. So many mistresses. What if some burglar comes to my hotel room when I'm all alone and defenseless?"
Cass fidgeted. Her reasoning wasn't outside the realm of possibilities. A senator's wife was as much of a target as her husband.
"No one's going to hurt you on my watch, Mrs. Westerfield."
As if to prove him wrong, a gunshot shattered the morning air. The saloon window behind Poppy's head exploded into a thousand pieces.
"Sniper!" she shrieked, flinging herself into his arms.
Cass muttered an oath, dragging her down behind the buckboard to avoid the shower of glass.
The boardwalk had turned into a chaotic jumble of screaming petticoats and jostling sack suits. Above the sound of a bawling toddler, a Tejano's handcart crashed to the street. Sugar skulls rolled; marigolds got trampled. Cass recognized the second and third reports of a Winchester rifle; he smelled the taint of black powder on the breeze.
Struggling to free his arms from Poppy's clutches, he drew his Colts and squinted to the east. The shooter was strategically positioned across the Public Square on Third Street, his back to the morning sun, his vital organs shielded by the false façade of the grocer's roof. A fire-limned derby was all Cass could clearly discern of the man's appearance.
But derbys are favored by sodbusters.
"Stay down!" Cass barked as Poppy tried to rise from her knees.
She locked her arms around his middle section. "Don't leave me!"
"Let me go!"
"You'll be killed!"
"Cass!" It was Baron's voice, booming from a mess of toppled handcarts, several doors up the street. "Tito was hit!"
Cass cursed at this news. "Take cover!" he shouted at his boss.
But Baron, being as stubborn as his prized longhorn bull, ignored this advice. He was returning the fire, trying to protect Tito. The pirate sprawled on his butt amidst smashed pumpkin rinds, while Pendleton cowered in his boss's shadow, wielding an utterly useless derringer. Baron's .45 wasn't much more effective under the circumstances. A Peacemaker's range was only 50 yards, while a Winchester could strike a target at 400.
Cass broke free of Poppy's frantic hold and tried to draw the sniper's fire. His strategy succeeded a little too well. Cartridges plowed into the kegs; wood chips exploded around his hat; beer foamed around his boots. Half blinded by sawdust and sun, he nevertheless heard a pinging sound. One of his own bullets had struck sparks from the brass receiver of the sniper's Winchester.
That deadly close-call must have enraged the assassin. He turned his rifle on the beer wagon's horse. The frightened animal neighed and bolted. Cass cursed as his cover began galloping away. To complicate matters, Poppy chose that exact moment to faint. He had to get the confounded woman inside the saloon before the dust settled!