Devil in Texas(38)

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The musicians were filing from their chairs for intermission. Sadie stood at the top of the stage steps. Like a queen, she cuddled Rex's roses and daintily offered her hand to her other admirers.

She hoped all this posturing made her appear in her glory after her "triumphant love song," as the stagehands were crowing about it. God knew, she didn't feel triumphant. When she'd blown a kiss to Rex, accusation had rolled off Cass in waves. She'd cringed, her insides shriveling before the blast of heat in Lucifire's glare.

Throughout her performance, Rex had staunchly played the doting beau. He'd stood in the aisle, just beyond the orchestra's seats, so every gossip in the crowd could watch their ruse. Although Wilma had orchestrated tonight's charade, Rex had improvised. He'd surprised Sadie by throwing that big, flashy bouquet of roses. Who would have guessed Rex possessed a theatrical bone in his body?

Now he stood watching her possessively, his arms crossed over his crisp white vest and linen shirt. He looked every inch the dashing Alpha Wolf, with his slicked back hair, immaculate swallowtails, and gleaming Justin boots. (Even Wilma hadn't been able to coax Rex into wearing opera pumps.) At the appropriate moment, one of Rex's campaign staff was supposed to appear with an urgent message to lure him away, leaving Sadie an unguarded little lamb, ripe for Baron to slaughter, so to speak.

Apparently, that moment was now. A plump clerk waddled over to his boss. Rex made a credible show of looking grave and bowing his head toward the shorter man. The campaign manager gestured urgently—melodramatically might have been a better description. Rex tossed her a look of disappointment that would have been flattering if he hadn't been acting out a role. Then he turned, and his commanding presence parted the mob of sycophants as cleanly as Moses had parted the Red Sea.

Baron continued to ogle her, but his expression was openly calculating. Sadie tried to be glad Wilma's plan was working. She forced herself to ramp up her flirtations. She was so close to luring the weasel from his lair! But pretending was hard—damned hard—when she had to lavish loins-stirring smiles on balding, pot-bellied admirers with tobacco-stained teeth. The only man whom she could have possibly wanted in that crowd had stalked out of the garden with his boss's wife on his arm.

"Outta the way," growled a male with a rough, Kentucky accent.

A roly-poly ripple of silver—equipped with flashing fangs—bounded up the stairs, causing her suitors to stumble backwards and mutter oaths. However, none of her erstwhile beaux dared to openly challenge the double threat of a 50-pound raccoon and the Colt .45 that was strapped under Collie's buckskin coat. The older men scattered to a resentful distance.

Cass's rangy sidekick halted two steps below her, a tactic that still allowed the crown of the 17-year-old's Stetson to tower over her by an inch. Sadie found herself staring into a sun-blackened face and flint-colored eyes, which were uncommonly hard for a youth. She imagined she was staring into iced steel.

Finally, Collie's lips interrupted their sneer long enough to speak.

"Baron wants to meet for a screw. Name your terms."

Sadie winced. In her whoring days, she'd been accustomed to uncouth propositions from drunken cowboys, buffalo hunters, and wolfers. But for some reason, Collie's lack of sentimentality made her stomach clench.

And then she understood why. Hatred burned in the black centers of the boy's eyes.

"Baron?" she repeated hoarsely. Her mouth had gone dryer than Death Valley. "Are you referring to Senator Westerfield?"

Somehow, she forced the lump from her throat. She pasted on a coy smile.

Collie snorted at her attempt at flirtation. "Save it, woman. I'm not Cass. That means I'm not gonna put up with your games. You in or out?"

Sadie drew a shuddering breath. She didn't dare glance at Baron. She suspected Collie was deliberately sabotaging the senator's proposition.

"You're loyal to Cass." She kept her voice low and even. "He's lucky to have a friend like you. You're not the kind to give trust easily."

"Don't change the subject." The boy's voice had a razor's edge. "This ain't about me."

"If you're really Cass's friend," she insisted in that same urgent undertone, "you'll get him the hell out of Baron's organization. Before it's too late. Before Cass gets himself hanged."

Collie's eyes narrowed. At the age of 17, he already had a gunfighter's stare. The proof was unnerving. "What's it to you?"

"Everything."

She drew herself up to her full five-foot-eight-inches. She didn't give a damn what Collie thought of her, as long as he looked out for Cass.

"Now go tell your boss a lady doesn't like to be ignored," she said with as much temerity as she could muster. Tonight, at least, she had to behave every bit like the whore Collie thought her to be. "Baron had his chance with me. So he'll have to do a lot better than a slap and a tickle if he wants me to spy for him on Rexford Sterne."





Chapter 12



Later that night, Cass stood in the woods across from Wilma's back fence, dodging moonlight and resisting the urge to light a smoke. Shadow sheathed him from his Stetson to his boots. He'd stuffed his pale gold hair beneath his hat; he'd readied his bandanna for the mission to come; and he'd discarded all reflective silver, including his buckle and spurs.

He was planning to ransack another bedroom.

When Collie had caught up with him, minutes before Act II, Cass ordered the boy to babysit Baron for the rest of the evening. But Collie hadn't been fooled by Cass's excuse—namely, that he had a sniper to catch. The boy guessed Cass was planning a showdown with Sadie.

That's when Collie surprised him by blurting out the news: "Sadie said if I was really your friend, I'd get you out of Baron's organization before you get yourself hanged."

"Oh, did she now?"

"Why would she say a thing like that?"

"Beats me."

"Don't you think you should find out?" Collie demanded, looking troubled.

"Don't you think you should mind your own business?"

"Hell, you're such a pain in my ass, you are my business," Collie retorted. "'Sides. I'm tired of getting you off of murder charges, Snake Bait."

"You're what?!"

"You heard me," Collie said loftily. "I didn't ride all the way to Texas for a suntan. You promised me a Ranger badge. But the way I figure it, you screwed up so bad with Sterne, he's got us both blackballed for life."

"Baron's going to fix that."

"I don't trust Baron."

"You don't trust anybody."

"That's what helps me survive," Collie said flatly. "And speaking of surviving, Sadie offered to spy on Sterne—for a price. Maybe she's playing Baron and Sterne against each other. You're the only body in this town, who can see through that woman's lies. You need to find out what she's really up to, before she gets herself plugged."

Cass blew out his breath. He hated when Collie was right.

In any event, Cass had decided to search through Sadie's trunks. The ones Collie had found in the Confederate munitions cave beneath Wilma's kitchen.

As autumn leaves eddied above the ten-foot cedar planks that circled Wilma's tool shed, Cass waited impatiently for a friendly cloud to gobble up the moon. It was Devil's Eve, so he figured a party was underway at the brothel. No doubt every bouncer on the property was on alert for pranksters. He'd already seen a pair of Sid's deputies trot down the street, shotguns in hand, scanning the shadows for mischief-minded youths.