"I like her already."
"I couldn't help but notice a certain family resemblance."
"What sharp little eyes you have."
"Just wait 'til you feel my teeth."
She ducked her head to hide her smirk. "I'll see your two hundred, and raise you two more."
But he ignored her bet. He was leaning closer now. The air between them shimmered with heat. Sparks and cinders, she thought a trifle breathlessly. Lucifire was lurking in the blazing blue depths of those eyes.
"Is your sister in trouble?" he demanded quietly.
The fire in that stare was making her grow hotter by the second—partly from guilt, and partly from the insane urge to grab a fistful of his sun-streaked hair and kiss him. She had to remind herself Cass was dangerous. That he worked for the enemy. That she was wearing a beard.
"Trouble's my sister's middle name," she rallied.
"Can't argue with you there, Match Head."
"Now you're pissing me off."
"Good. I haven't lost my touch." His dimples peeked, but his eyes fairly smoked. "If we're being watched—" he lowered his voice "—all I need's a simple answer: Yes or no?"
She squirmed. Now she felt like she was sitting on a furnace. If she answered, "No," she'd have to explain why she'd been climbing through a hotel window last night to avoid Tito, who'd been blocking the stairs. If she answered, "Yes," she'd have to deal with the unmitigated mess of Cass snooping around and learning things he shouldn't. She could never let him get that close again, even if he sincerely wanted to protect her.
Gulping a breath, she opted for the coward's way out: Diversion. "Quit stalling, hotshot. Place your bet."
"I bet your sister's in way over her saucy red head."
"Only when you're around, Romeo."
"You don't say?"
"I just did."
But he wouldn't back down. "So what kind of trouble are we talking about?"
She waved a vague hand. "You know women."
"I like to think I do."
"You're too modest by far."
"You can't believe everything you hear."
"Except in your case."
"Aw. That's sweet." Once again, he refused to be sidetracked. "Maybe you could put in a good word for me. Tell your sister I have friends. Friends who could fix any trouble she's in."
"Are you referring to Big Iron and the Peacemaker?" She arched a suggestive eyebrow. "Or the pistol in between?"
His chuckle was wolfish. "Now there's a thought. But I was thinking more along the lines of the law."
"You know the law?"
"I know folks who make the laws."
"Well, I'll be dinged."
He drove his point home. "My folks could help your folks go a long way."
She was glad for the spectacles because the tint disguised her uneasiness. She'd been hoping Cass didn't know how Baron conspired to kill off his rivals. But Cass was talking like a confidence man now.
"All the way to Ranger headquarters?" she demanded. She couldn't quite keep the accusation from her voice.
A blue norther rolled between them.
It wasn't hard to guess what Baron was using to exploit Cass's loyalty. From the first day she'd met 12-year-old William "Billy" Cassidy, trotting after her like a puppy on a string, leaving wildflowers on her brothel windowsill, naming the sky's brightest stars after her, Billy had talked her ears off about three things: sex, guns, and his dream to become a Texas Ranger.
Recalling the idealistic youth Cass had been, Sadie supposed it had been inevitable that he'd turn vigilante. That he'd feel responsible, as the last surviving member of his clan, to take on the patriarch's nickname—and the patriarch's duty of hunting down the man who'd murdered his 18-year-old cousin. When Cass had plugged Abel Ainsworth, he'd not only made an enemy of prominent Ku Klux Klansmen in northeast Texas, he'd shattered his dream of becoming a Ranger.
Now Baron was preying on Cass's childhood dream, dangling a Ranger badge like a carrot under his nose. If Baron learned Rex was trying to pin a murder charge on him, Baron would do more than remove Rex from the Force. He'd have Rex silenced—by Cass!
"You got a problem with Rangers?" Cass demanded.
"I never have a problem with Rangers," she said grimly. "As long as they haven't tarnished the badge."
"Then wake up and smell the java."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means your Ranger friend's a big phony."
"Forgive me if I question the word of a man who's been holding a grudge for four years."
"And with good reason."
She rolled her eyes. "Time to change your tune, cowpoke. You're like a rusty old gate, swinging in the wind."
"Maybe if you listened for a spell, you'd finally hear the truth."
"All right. I'll bite. What truth?"
"Do I have to spell it out for you? Your Ranger's got greased palms."
"That's ridiculous! Rex would never take a bribe! He's the most honorable, upstanding man in all of Texas!"
Cass snorted. "You'd have to have sawdust for brains to believe a whopper like that. Find yourself a new protector. Sterne's days are numbered."
Sadie's heart stuttered. Was that a threat? Was Cass threatening Rex?
"Just so we're clear—" she had to force the words from her constricting throat "—if you mess with him, you mess with me."
Cass shoved back his chair. Anger punctuated that economical movement. All his neat little piles of red, white, and green chips toppled, scattering with a flimsy chinking sound.
"Glad we cleared the air," he said pleasantly—too pleasantly. He set the Stetson on his head.
"Cass, wait!"
He paused in mid-stride, his broad back like a wall, his features chiseled by shadow. When he locked stares with her over his shoulder, an arctic blast came from that ice-blue glare.
"I don't want our friendship to end this way," she pleaded.
"That's been your problem since the beginning, darlin'. The loyalty you show your friends."
Hard-lipped and diamond-eyed, he tipped his hat before striding away.
She muttered an oath and shoved her cards across the table. A crushing sense of frustration weighted her chest as she watched him slam out the door. Cass wanted to believe Baron's lies.
Her coyote had been thoroughly snared.
Chapter 8
The next morning, Sadie was in disguise again: this time, as a frumpy, gray-haired maid with a pillow for a paunch.
Doing her best not to think about Cass, and how she might be forced to arrest him, she shuffled around the lobby of the Grand Park Hotel in her white mobcap, ruffled apron, and navy-colored uniform. Occasionally, as conventioneers hurried past, she would swipe her feather duster with great exuberance over a Tiffany lamp shade or the eight-foot rack of a stuffed, longhorn steer. Her goal was to keep an eye on the stairwell. She figured Poppy Westerfield would have to descend from the second story eventually.
The Grand Park Hotel was one of the crowning, architectural achievements of Lampasas. It's only flaw appeared to be its lack of an elevator. Built by the railroad as a mecca for conventioneers, vacationers, and convalescents, the hotel looked like an enormous mansion with wrap-around porches and banner-bedecked turrets. Boasting 200 guest rooms and at least a dozen cabins, it sprawled across the southwestern corner of the city with a first-class dining room, ballroom, and recreational area, which offered boating, horseracing, shooting contests, and music recitals. As if these entertainments weren't enough, a guest could travel via boardwalk or mule-drawn trolley to one of the many mineral springs that had given rise to the city's reputation as a health resort.