Devil in Texas(18)

He flashed a wicked grin. "You know me. Always trying to be a better man." He offered her the pouch. "Consider these a token of my esteem. I saw them, and I thought of your eyes," he added gallantly.

Curiosity sneaked across her features. When she tipped the bag, a perfectly matched pair of tiger eye earrings spilled into her palm.

"My eyes?" she repeated archly.

He adopted his best hang-dog expression. "You don't like them."

"They are lovely, cher. And yet, I cannot help but think you had some other tiger in mind."

He widened his baby-blues. "Whoever could you mean?"

Indulging in a showboater's gene, he dropped the other object hiding in his palm. "Oh, darn," he drawled, taking great pains to make sure Sadie's necklace spilled across his boot. "There I go with my butter fingers."

Anybody who knew Sadie knew that necklace meant the world to her. The pendant was actually a brass button from her daddy's Confederate uniform. Crossed sabers dominated the design, with '8' centered above, and 'TX' below. The etchings signified the Eighth Texas Cavalry—more commonly known as Terry's Texas Rangers. Sadie had once confided to Cass that other than an old Henry repeater rifle, the battered button was the only memento she still possessed of Roarke Michelson.

Cass stooped, retrieving his prize. "Say, Wilma. Do you know where I might find a poker game with a freckled sodbuster? I could use this necklace as my opening stake. I figure it must be worth a couple of dollars, at least."

Wilma looked torn between amusement and agitation. "Since when did you become interested in freckled sodbusters?"

"Since one kicked me in the gut last night."

"Poor darling. You didn't happen to be holding your gun at point-blank range?"

"What mean-spirited busy-body started that rumor?"

She chuckled as his show of indignation. "Wait here. I'll see what I can do."





Chapter 7



Chewing the fat with a discontented group of grangers, Sadie sprawled man-like in her chair with a circle of empty shot glasses cluttering her side of the poker table. The four of clubs was showing in her Stud draw, and a stack of chips was rapidly depleting at her elbow. She was losing on purpose. She was also slurring her words and laughing louder than necessary. God knew, she'd observed enough rednecks in Western saloons to know how to mimic one.

According to Cotton, Cass had arrived, hunting for her. Sadie wasn't surprised. In fact, she'd prepared. That's why she'd donned a dingy linen sack suit (which was the ugliest thing she'd ever worn); blue-tinted railroad spectacles (to turn her amber eyes a shade of green;) flesh-toned putty to hide the freckles on her nose, and auburn facial hair. Knowing Cass as she did, she figured she was due for a monumental showdown.

Her mind flashed back to a torrid night in Dodge, when she'd insisted she was a business woman who would never give her heart to any man. He'd taken offense at the idea. When she'd refused to make an exception, even for him, he'd used his lariat to bind her to the posts of her bed. She could still hear his provocative drawl above her ripping breaths as he'd tantalized her feverish, sensitized nakedness. She could still remember melting into a sparking puddle of nerves when he'd plied his considerable talents at sin, tormenting her with whipping cream and his wickedly mobile tongue. Unable to resist a moment longer, she'd begged him to take her, and he'd plunged triumphantly inside her until she'd exploded like a freaking supernova.

A lusty little smile curved her lips.

'Stop that!' her ever-practical brain railed at her nether region. What the Rebel Rutter knew about love could probably be poured into a thimble.

As if on cue, the parlor door opened, and Wilma crossed to Sadie's table with a serving tray. As the madam flashed her secretive smile and leaned over Sadie's shoulder, Sadie could smell the oddly pleasant combination of dried peony and rosemary, which the Mambo regularly replenished in her gris-gris, the protection pouch swinging from a leather cord around her neck. Wilma ardently believed in banishing evil—as well she might. A whore, and especially a whore of mixed blood, often saw the darkest side of men.

"Are you sure you're up to meeting with him, chere?" the Mambo whispered, placing a shot of whiskey-colored sugar water by Sadie's elbow.

Sadie nodded curtly. She didn't see how fleeing through Wilma's secret tunnel would help her dig up dirt on a senator. Besides, the only way to determine if Cass could be turned into a trustworthy informant was to figure out how loyal he was to Baron.

"C'est bon," Wilma murmured. "I shall send him to the poker room. Let us see how long your disguise fools our Rebel Rutter."

Wilma waved; Cotton nodded; and within minutes, Cass and Collie were stepping through the sliding panel that separated the gaming hall from the parlor. A great deal of grinning and giggling arose from the two female beerjerkers in the room. Sadie couldn't tell whether they were admiring Cass's rugged good looks or Collie's. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought the kid's silvery-blond hair, sun-chiseled features, and rangy torso made him Cass's younger brother.

Pushing her spectacles up her nose, she pretended to focus on shuffling. The hayseeds in her game were well on their way to having their crops freighted, so to speak. In fact, they were more interested in gawking at "big city titties" than shelling out money for a rut. Sadie figured her Bubbas were the best part of her disguise to fool Cass.

But she hadn't considered the raccoon. Cass let the varmint sniff something that looked suspiciously like Daddy's button. The next thing she knew, the roly-poly nuisance was galloping across the carpet in a silvery ripple of fur, sniffing his way past boots and spittoons before clambering triumphantly into her lap. She glowered at the creature.

"Tarnation!" cried Bubba One, blinking blearily across the table at the furry game-crasher. "I'm seeing coons!"

"Dag-nabbit." This from Bubba Two. "I gave the bouncer my squirrel gun!"

"Don't make no never mind," said the heroic Bubba Three, who was trying—rather clumsily—to impale the coon with a walking stick. "I'll barbecue the varmint!"

The coon swiped a paw, flashing ferocious fangs. A heartbeat later, Cass and Collie stood scowling on either side of her chair.

"You barbecue my coon, and I'll barbecue your ass," Collie threatened in a gruff, Kentucky accent.

The coon grabbed her shot glass and began guzzling the sugar water.

Honestly. How does Cass keep a straight face around these clowns?

"Scram," the gunfighter growled, drilling his iced baby-blues into the rednecks.

The grangers gulped and fled, their chairs toppling backwards onto the carpet.

So much for the safety of numbers.

But Sadie had been playing games with Cass—both in and out of bed—long enough to recognize a real threat when she saw one. Right now, his anger was under control.

"Looks like we're one short in our foursome," she drawled, continuing to shuffle her cards. "Should I be dealing a hand for the coon?"

Collie arched an eyebrow at Cass. "You put up with that mouth?"

"With a gag."

Sadie snorted. "So you'll be kissing my ass, then."

Reluctant amusement sneaked across the steely planes of Cass's face.

The kid shook his head. "You're a goner, Snake Bait." Hoisting Vandy to his shoulder, Collie reached for a Bubba's half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. "I'm getting drunk over yonder. So if you need rescuing, you'll have to give Vandy a holler."