Devil in Texas(25)

Cass refused to budge.

"I distinctly recall giving you the whole night off," Baron said archly. "Collie too."

"Yeah? Well, I recall your promise to stay in. With Poppy."

Baron flashed his horsey grin. "Change of plans. The ol' gal had a headache. Took a sedative and fell asleep."

"So Tito's with her?"

"You mean Pantywaist the Pirate?" Baron snorted. "Tito wrote a note. Said he was done letting snipers use him for target practice. He headed home to Galveston."

Cass hiked an eyebrow. "Tito knows his letters?"

"Surprised the stuffing out of me too. I reckon he had someone write it on his behalf. In any event, he quit."

Cass frowned, digesting this news. "If Tito isn't upstairs, and neither is Collie, then who's protecting Poppy?"

"Uh... Pendleton?"

Cass had half a mind to slug his boss. Pendleton would pee his pants at the first sign of a masked man with a gun.

"What's the matter with you? After convincing your wife that a burglar was rummaging through your underwear drawer, Poppy's scared out of her mind."

"You're half right," Baron said dryly. Then he turned sheepish. "Aw, hell, Cass. Don't look at me that way. A man's got needs. You know that better than anyone. I told the hotel detective to pass by the room on his rounds. She'll be all right. If Poppy wakes, tell her I'm playing poker. Comprende?"

Ignoring Cass's sputtered objection, Baron saluted with his walking stick and breezed past him on the stairs. Cass watched through narrowed eyes as the senator reached the boardwalk and strolled beneath the orange and yellow lanterns, bobbing in the languid breeze that riffled the live oak trees. Every now and then, Baron would tip his hat to passing ladies. The boardwalk was moderately crowded with well-heeled couples, who were enjoying the autumn stars and the romantic strains of a stringed quartet.

But as Baron drew abreast of the musicians' pavilion, a voluptuous redhead in a slinky, black gown materialized at his side and slipped an arm through his.

The woman looked an awful lot like Sadie.

Damn her anyway!

Sickened by the visions dancing in his head, Cass decided Baron could, indeed, protect himself from bushwhackers tonight. The last thing Cass needed was to sit outside Baron's campaign office, listening to him and Sadie rut on the mattress in the back room.

Slamming through the lobby doors, Cass stalked past brass planters of prickly pear cacti and a fountain that spouted garlands of autumn leaves, in lieu of precious water. When he finally climbed the stairwell to his floor, he found Pendleton snoozing on a chair outside Poppy's room. A newspaper was spread over the secretary's face to shut out the flickering light of wall sconces.

How can a book-learned man be so stupid?

Cass had half a mind to kick the chair out from under Poppy's "guard." Gritting his teeth, he snatched the Lampasas Dispatch off the secretary's head. The rustling news print—or maybe the sudden flash of light—caused the older man to snort awake.

"Cassidy! I was just—"

"Snoring. Yeah, I heard."

Pendleton had the decency to redden. Leaping to his feet, he straightened his rumpled suit coat and shoved his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose. "I tried to tell Baron he was making a mistake."

"You mean about making you a bodyguard?"

Pendleton hiked his chin. He had a crab-apple face from squinting at numbers all day and a stooped frame from hunching over ledgers. With his pasty complexion, extra thick lenses, and thinning hair, he looked ten years older than Baron.

Ironically, he was ten years younger.

"I have no trouble conceding I'm not the sharpshooter you are," Pendleton said testily. "However, every man has talents. You might be able to brand a steer, but I can make it turn a profit—even in a drought. I assure you, men with my talent are far rarer than men with yours."

Cass hiked an eyebrow. He hadn't been aware he and Pendleton were competing for the designation of Best Hired Hand.

"No one's questioning your loyalty, Pendleton. Or your work ethic. Just your choice to take a nap."

Fiercely brown eyes raked Cass from hat to toe. If he'd been a misplaced decimal point, he would have tucked his tail and headed for the hills.

"Watching Baron play poker all day is easy work," Pendleton accused. "Try discussing water issues with Bo Bodine. That nitwit can't even convert miles to acres on a map!"

Cass hiked an eyebrow. "You met with the Chairman of the Senate's Agriculture Committee?"

Pendleton bristled. "Not that it's any of your business, but yes. Yes, I did. We crossed paths in the lobby around dinnertime. Baron's always saying, 'Seize the day,' so I did. Mrs. Westerfield was carrying our maps, so I pleaded Baron's case.

"Bodine's a real piece of work," Pendleton continued grimly. "I don't think he can even read the Texas Constitution, much less uphold it as an elected official. The sodbuster said some pretty vulgar things about Baron's reelection hopes too. Mrs. Westerfield was so upset, she retired with a headache."

Cass frowned. "Shouldn't you be leaving the discussion of water rights to Baron's attorney?"

Pendleton stiffened. "For your information, Mr. Cassidy, Baron bought that parcel of land from my father, after Pa fell on hard times. No law wrangler knows that acreage better—or cares about it more—than I do. I shall continue to advocate for its improvement during the drought. By this time next year, I should have all the money I need to buy it back."

With a terse nod, Pendleton turned on his heel and marched toward his suite. He'd only taken three steps, however, when he halted.

"A word of advice, Mr. Cassidy," he called over his shoulder. "Mrs. Westerfield is not as hardy as she seems. Despite appearances to the contrary, Baron has grave concerns about her."

"You got a point, Pendleton?"

The secretary's thin lips twitched in a mocking smile. "In certain circles, you are hailed as Eros in Spurs, are you not? I think you know my point, Mr. Cassidy. Good evening."

Cass scowled.

Pencil-necked fussbudget.

Resigned to the tedium of babysitting a sedated woman, Cass decided to splash water on his face. He stripped off his hat, spurs, and boots. Then he tugged a bottle of tequila from his saddlebag. Only when he was settling down on the edge of the bed to toss back his first shot did he hear the unmistakable creak of a floorboard in the hall.

A moment later, a tentative knock sounded on his door.

"Cass?" Poppy's plaintive voice quavered as she called out his name. "Is... is Baron with you?"

Just my luck. The sedative wore off.

Stuffing his tequila under a pillow, Cass forced a smile for his boss's wife and tugged open the door. He found Poppy standing barefoot and tear-streaked, her perfumed cloud of auburn hair spilling over a flimsy, peacock-blue negligee that left little to his imagination.

Despite being 16 years his senior, Poppy was undeniably attractive. She had lush breasts, voluptuous hips, and legs that went on for miles. She also had a tendency to weep, rail, and swoon—behaviors that seemed more frequent now than they had in '78, the last year Cass had prodded Baron's steers along the Western Cattle Trail to Dodge.

Poppy's big, misty green eyes peered eagerly past him to the bed. "Are you alone?"

"'Fraid so, ma'am."

She blinked, squeezing out a tear. "That bastard! He's with her again, isn't he?"

Before Cass could utter a single, credible excuse for his boss, Poppy started wailing like a banshee and threw herself into his arms. He staggered backwards, biting off an oath as the door swung closed behind her. In the next instant, 120 pounds of buxom, blubbering femininity were sliding down his ribcage toward his nether region. Cass wasn't any saint, but even he was horrified by the way his pecker was responding to his boss's wife.