That's when the second shot rang out.
"Damnation," Cass muttered, splashing for the deck. "Who's shooting out here after midnight?"
She gave chase. "Maybe Collie's just bored and treeing varmints—"
"Collie's in town. Guarding Baron."
Cass was throwing on his clothes, buckling on his guns. She quailed to think how much this scene resembled their last night together in Dodge: gunfire blazing outside her bedroom window, Cass punching his legs into trousers and pumping bullets into his Colts. That night, she'd feared she would never see him alive again.
The same worry plagued her now.
"I'm coming with you!" she insisted, hauling herself out of the pool.
"You're staying here. Out of sight."
"Dammit, Cass, I know how to fire a—"
"Stay put, woman!" He blasted her with the heat of his glare. "I won't let you die on me again!" Snatching up his pigsticker, he sped down the hall like a black knife, cleaving even darker shadows.
Sadie hurled an oath after his domineering head and grabbed for her trousers. A heartbeat later, she was cursing her denim. It kept sticking to her wet skin. By the time she'd shimmied her dungarees up over her buttocks, the glint of Cass's pale hair had vanished. She couldn't hear the echo of his boots. Only the usual night sounds reigned: katydids, tree frogs, cicadas, owls.
She blew out her breath. Between her shivers and her adrenaline, she despaired that her shaking fingers would ever get her shirt buttoned. Since no one in their right mind would think she was a man without her breast bindings, she didn't bother attaching her suspenders or tucking in her shirttails. She simply stomped on her boots and plunked on her hat.
After the relative brilliance of the pool room, the hall was blacker than Satan's heart. Sadie found herself stumbling blindly into picture frames, potted plants, and towel tables. No wonder Cass had charged down the center of the corridor, instead of edging along the walls.
She braved the yawning void of the hall's center, but she was loath to trot, much less charge into that gloom, since she couldn't see her hand in front of her face. When she came to a four-way intersection, capped by another bubble dome, she didn't have a clue which way he'd turned.
She was just thinking Cass's wisdom to stay put might have been a good idea, when suddenly, her ears caught the rumble of voices, rolling out of the southern corridor where the men's dressing rooms were located.
"...When I heard you got paroled." Baron's resonant baritone carried through a deep, thick silence as unnerving as any tomb's.
"No thanks to you," the outlaw growled in a surly, mid-western accent.
"My attorney kept you from getting hanged in an open-and-shut case. Use the smarts God gave you, Hank. You're finished here. Get the hell out of Lampasas."
"And buy a train ticket with what? My good looks?"
"I'll make the arrangements. Just stay away from Poppy, you hear?"
"Aw, you've gone and hurt my feelings," Hank taunted. "'Course, you being up for reelection and all, I can see how you'd be a bit antsy, not wanting certain things to leak to the press. Say! Maybe we could rendezvous at the ranch. I could take care of your rustlers, like old times."
"I already got a regulator," Baron said curtly.
"You mean that pretty blond with the flashy rig?" Hank snorted. "Hell, Cassidy's as green as split pea soup. I'm not even sure he shaves."
"Do yourself a favor, Hank. Stay off my land."
"Ooh. Now I'm shaking in my boots. You don't think I can take Pretty Boy."
"I don't think you can keep your ass out of jail long enough for me to worry about it. But just so we're clear: if you take on Cass, you're on your own."
"And if your Golden Boy takes me on, what then? A man's gotta right to self-defense."
"Nothing you ever do is self-defense."
Hank chuckled. "That reminds me, boss. You owe me my hard-earned wage, with interest, since I couldn't collect my usual fee in jail."
Sadie's heart was fluttering like a hummingbird's wings. Recalling that Baron kept a private locker in the building, she wasn't surprised when she heard the unmistakable clicks of a combination lock, followed by the squeal of rusted hinges.
Next, she heard a thump. The noise could have come from anything being tossed onto the floor: a heap of dirty towels. Greenbacks in a sack. Baron's rolling head. Sadie's imagination was going wild. She had to get close enough to see this Hank.
"Much obliged," Hank grunted.
Hank didn't sound "obliged" at all. In fact, he sounded like a greedy, barn-sized pig, except Sadie had too much respect for swine to include Hank among them.
"Wait a minute," Hank growled in ominous tones. "This ain't my usual fee."
"You'll get your usual fee when you get your ass out of Texas. Like we agreed."
"I don't like being stiffed."
"I don't like being blackmailed."
Chills scuttled down Sadie's spine. So Baron had hired Hank at some point to "take care of rustlers." Sadie didn't need much imagination to think that murder was involved, or that Hank had killed for Baron many times in the past. Now Hank was threatening to talk. But who would believe the vermin? Hank must be able to produce some really damaging evidence—evidence that would convince the courts to take an outlaw's word over a senator's!
Excited by her discovery, Sadie had visions of closing her case. She couldn't let the men walk out of hearing now, not when one of them might say something concrete that would let her send Baron to a hanging judge!
As their voices moved down the hall, she eased her pistol from its holster and began the nerve-wracking process of feeling her way along the walls. Her eyes were slightly more useful now, thanks to moonbeams from the skylight behind her. She passed closed doors, which she suspected were massage chambers, dressing rooms, and assembly parlors. She also tiptoed past a set of stairs, where she could hear the gurgle of water—most likely the spring's tufa chamber. When she came to the next intersection, she eased her head around the corner.
The first thing she realized was she'd been walking in a circle. Baron and Hank had halted several feet from the entry to the pool. With the glimmers of moon-dappled water dancing over their forms, Sadie could discern vague details, like Baron's walking stick and Hank's pointed boot toes. The assassin proved to be a man of average height, average build, and average hair color. He was the perfect, nondescript nobody most folks wouldn't notice in a crowd—until he started firing his gun.
She squinted to get a clear view of his face, but his Stetson shadowed the parts that weren't covered by scruffy whiskers and lank, shoulder-length hair. His most recognizable feature proved to be his voice: cold. Guttural. Sneering.
"So how's the missus? Still crazier than a loon?"
"Runs in the family—so I'm told," Baron added snidely.
Hank barked with laughter. "You know, a love like that can be a poison."
"Prison taught you about love, eh?"
"I learned a lot of things in prison," Hank drawled. "I also met a couple acquaintances of yours—and some cronies of your railroad pals, too. Maybe I'll swing by the hotel. Introduce myself proper to your rich friends."
"Be my guest. The Grand Park is crawling with tin-stars. And speaking of tin-stars, remember the Ranger who got you locked up in state prison? You can pay your respects to him at the Globe Hotel."
Sadie's hackles rose. I have to warn Rex!
They'd turned their backs on her and started walking again. Suddenly, Hank's boots slid out from under him. He sputtered a blood-curdling oath but recovered his balance with the agility of a rattler. Squatting with a vengeance, he swiped his fingers across the terra cotta tiles leading to the pool's vaulted entry.