Devil in Texas(19)

Cass nodded.

For a long moment, he continued to stand there, flexing his hands over his missing Colts as if he wanted to draw—or maybe to shake her. Eyes the color of a wind-swept Texas sky raked over her wig, facial hair, and voluminous coat, possibly checking for weapons. God knew, she was about as alluring as a potato sack in all this baggy linen.

But Cass... Well, he would have made her mouth water with an apple barrel suspended from his shoulders. As usual, he wore black. All black. Since his gun belt was in Cotton's capable hands, only the winking of his fancy, Mexican-style rowels detracted from the sleek, feral lines of his six-foot length.

She decided to break the stalemate.

"Where'd you get that pendant?" she demanded, hiking an eyebrow at the battered brass. It was Daddy's button, all right. Cass had let it flop onto his bandanna to make sure she saw it. She'd been hunting for that pendant all damned day!

Cass flashed his Coyote grin and tucked the makeshift, leather cord beneath his collar. "What, this old thing?"

"Play you for it," she challenged.

"Don't know if you can afford the stakes."

Smartass. He knew precisely how much that button meant to her.

Sadie shrugged and riffled the deck of cards. "Sounds like you're scared you'll lose."

"Them's fighting words, Four Eyes."

"I'm shaking in my boots, cowboy."

It was the old banter, with a delicious new twist: the unknown element of Cass's loyalty.

He picked up a chair and straddled it. As he settled close beside her, Sadie struggled to ignore the captivating shower of sparks that danced along her nerves. The crackle of current between her and Cass had always been like some hungry, growling thing. Never had it been more dangerous than tonight, when she had to keep her head cool and her heart hard to discern the truth from his lies.

He doffed his Stetson and set it on the table. "The name's Cassidy," he said in ironic tones. "William. Most folks call me Cass."

"Uh-huh."

"You got a name?"

"Depends on what I'm wearing."

The twitch in his lips betrayed his mirth. He'd maneuvered his chair close enough for her to catch the faint whiff of sandalwood soap. So few men bothered to sponge off the stink of sweat and steer before they came to solicit a rut. But Cass knew how to please a woman. More accurately, he knew how to make a woman melt into a sparking puddle at his boots—and that was before he flashed all those dazzling teeth.

"Seems like we've met before," he drawled.

"Must've been a past life."

"As I recollect, you weren't so fond of wearing a beard back then."

"A wretched nuisance," she confided. "It itches like hell."

"I like it."

"You would."

Never missing a beat, she dealt the first hand for Stud Poker. The Queen of Hearts showed on her side of the table, the Knave of Hearts on his.

"How fitting." His baritone was velvety, nearly a croon. Picking up chips, he tossed them to the center of the table. He'd staked 100 dollars.

Showboater.

But she'd expected no less. From day to day, Cass was either as rich as a bank or as poor as a migrant orchard picker. When she'd reunited with him four years ago in Dodge, he'd bragged that he'd just won every stitch of clothing in a game of chance. Money meant nothing to Cass. If his guns earned him thousands by noon, he gambled away his winnings by sundown. He'd always been of the opinion that he could live off the land, and life's other necessities—like ammo, whiskey, and riding tack—could be won in some contest he dreamed up on the spot. Knife-throwing and target-shooting were the areas in which he excelled, although he pitched a mean game of horseshoes, and she'd seen him crush rival marble-shooters, mainly because he threw off their aim with his banter.

Peeking at her cards, Sadie was hard-pressed not to sigh. They were crap, of course. Having lived above a saloon most of her life, she'd been playing high-stakes card games since the age of 13. She knew the value of a Poker Face, so she was careful to keep hers firmly in place. Besides, no one liked competition more than Cass.

"I'll see your hundred, and raise you a hundred," she said, tossing her chips into the kitty. She'd be damned if she lost to him. The Pinkertons gave her an allowance for gambling. Rarely was she called upon to spend it, but when she did, her bluffing skills usually earned the agency money.

"Harvest must've been good this year, granger." He met her stakes and demanded two cards.

Thinks he has a decent hand, does he?

She dealt herself two cards and prayed for queens. "Some things ripen with age."

"Like women?"

"Like cheese."

He chuckled. The leading bet was his again, so he tossed another hundred dollars into the pot. "Don't know too many men who wear sun-shades in a poker game."

"You calling me a cheat?"

"You wanna wrassle over it?"

"You'd only get whupped."

He flashed all those pretty teeth. "That's why I brought an extra lariat."

Oh, he really was a cut-up.

Doing her best to ignore the delicious tingles skipping down her spine, she drilled him with her best no-nonsense glare. "I call. Show your hand, cowpoke."

"Poke being the operative word." With a deft finger he flipped his cards. "Full house."

Damn.

"Double or nothing?" he taunted in provocative tones.

Ever-conscious of her cover, she shot him a withering glare. "Only if you watch your manners. I have a reputation to keep."

"You should've thought of that before you grew a beard." He poured her a drink then scooped up the cards. He handled the pasteboards like a professional, letting them fly between his hands in a rippling arc of red and white.

"Impressive. Who taught you how to shuffle like a sharper? Doc?"

"You mean, Holliday?" Cass chuckled. "Naw. Collie did."

She nearly snorted whiskey up her nose. "That kid scares me."

"Not so loud. He'll only gloat."

She laughed, tossing back her shot. Cass dealt. The cards flicked so fast across the table, they blurred. This time when she peeked, she had a shot at a full house or a three-pair. The Ace of Spades was showing on Cass's side of the table.

She bet one hundred.

"I'll see you, and raise you two hundred," he said.

She rolled her eyes. Of course you do.

"Two cards," she said, and he dealt again. She got her third ten.

"Dealer takes one." He slapped down the deck. "So, Granger. About this red-headed sister of yours—"

"We were talking about sisters?" She tossed her stake into the pot.

"We were talking about women."

"I thought we were talking about cardsharps."

"That's 'cause you hear only what you want to hear," he retorted.

Donkey butt. How many times have I accused you of the same thing over the years?

"So what happened to the girl?" he demanded.

"What girl?"

"Your firebrand of a sister."

She shook her head. "Sad story."

"I'm listening."

"You know what happened to Maisy."

He had the good grace to redden. Back in Dodge, he'd gone snooping through her bedroom and found the untitled ballad she'd written as a catharsis about her drowned twin. After reading lyrics like, "Secret angel of my heart, I hate that we are parted," Cass had leaped to the conclusion she'd been writing love songs about Rex. The blow-up that night had been cataclysmic, and the beginning of the end of their affair.

"Not that sister," he persisted, tossing another two-hundred dollars into the pot. "I'm talking about the sister who's too ornery to die. The sister who wouldn't pay the devil his due."