"Are you still going to sing in the Halloween show?" Jazi asked wistfully, propping her derriere on the vanity. "Even with a sore throat?"
"You know what they say, 'The show must go on,'" Sadie said, dusting powder over her freckled nose. "As a matter of fact, I need you to run upstairs and remind Cotton to hail me a hack. I'm due at rehearsal in half an hour."
Jazi's brow knitted. She was triple-wrapping the cord of her gris-gris around her fingers. "I wish you and Mama could be friends. Then you could visit us in New Orleans."
Sadie fixed a pleasant smile on her face. An act of God would be required to make her and Randie friends. However, Jazi didn't need to know that. On impulse, Sadie dragged off her pearl necklace and draped it over the child's sausage-style curls.
"For me?" Jazi breathed. "To keep?"
"Forever and ever."
The child squealed, jumping up to admire her reflection. She looked flushed and glassy-eyed, and Sadie hoped that excitement, not another bout of sickness, was the cause.
"I'm beautiful!"
"I told you you were, silly."
Jazi threw her arms around Sadie's neck and sniffed back tears. "Thanks for being my friend, Maisy."
Sadie's heart warmed as she watched Jazi dash for the stairs on her errand. As much as Sadie hated to admit it, Randie couldn't be all bad. She'd raised a darling child.
With a furtive glance to make sure the trap door was closed, Sadie concentrated on arming herself—a task that Jazi's visit had forced her to delay. She fastened a pistol to her thigh and slipped a stiletto into the sheath sewn beneath her collar. She snapped plump caps onto the buttons of her bodice; they were easily detached when she needed a smoke bomb. Her cameo could do all kinds of damage, not the least of which was spray ink into an assailant's eyes, and her belt buckle could be "unsheathed" as a knife.
Like her daddy's pendant, her Pinkerton ring hid a secret compartment. Today, she'd chosen a sapphire cabochon. Depending on the color of her gown, the stone could be exchanged for a ruby, emerald, or topaz, all of which snapped closed over a tiny needle that injected a powerful sleeping draught.
But Sadie's handiest weapon, when she was forced to wear a skirt, was her .32. It was attached to the sliding mechanism beneath the right sleeve of her jaunty, bolero jacket.
Satisfied her arsenal was in good working order, she gathered her hat and reticule and headed upstairs.
As her private hack rolled down Third Street, Sadie could see pedestrians in trousers and petticoats shopping up a storm, no doubt hoping to avoid the merciless heat as the sun crept higher. The bargain hunters were haggling with street vendors over last-minute purchases, primarily sugar skulls, although crosses, candles, and ritual toys were also flying off handcarts bedecked with orange marigolds and yellow chrysanthemums.
The Day of the Dead was actually a 72-hour period, from All Hallows' Eve through All Souls' Day. A popular time to build altars, decorate gravesites, and honor departed loved ones, the tradition was dear to Tejanos and Mexican immigrants. But Día de los Muertos had also been heartily embraced by Lampasas rowdies, who wanted nothing more than an excuse to wear a mask and make mischief for three days.
This notion caused an image of Cass to flash through her mind. Last night, after she'd ended their argument, he'd initiated another round. The fracas had started when he'd insisted she ride Pancake with him to fetch her mare.
"Mount up." Blocking her path, he'd shoved the buckskin's leads into her hand. "I'm taking you back to town."
"I prefer my own horse."
"Quit being so mulish. You don't know what's waiting out there in those dark woods. Or who."
"I can fire a gun as well as any man."
He snorted. "Except me, and Hank, and Collie and Sterne—"
"I can fend for myself!"
"Tell that to Collie after he saved your ass."
Incensed to hear him use her confidence against her, she snapped, "I think you're forgetting who wears the badge around here!"
He backed her into his horse's flank. She sucked in her breath. His eyes were fairly smoking.
Facing Cass, when he took on the Lucifire persona, was an unnerving challenge. At six feet, two-inches, and dressed entirely in black, he towered over her like an Olympian-sized spike, forged on some fire god's anvil. The shadows cast by his hat brim only seemed to make the sapphire flames of his soul burn brighter in that unyielding glare. She had to square her shoulders and ball her fists to keep from cringing.
"Either you mount up willingly," he said in a low, fierce undertone, "or I'll truss you up like a turkey and throw you over that saddle."
Tyrant.
To add to his growing list of sins, Cass had somehow found Rex before she had. The Ranger had been waiting for her, pacing Wilma's boudoir like a caged wolf. Rex had fired the opening shot by demanding to know why she hadn't hidden her Pinkerton badge better. The debriefing had gone downhill from there. She'd been too angry to spare Cass by hiding the truth about his snooping, and Rex had turned florid at her description of the Bowie knife stuck through her handbill's nose.
Wilma hadn't taken the news much better. She'd quickly deduced that her "secret" tunnel wasn't so secret and that Collie was responsible for her missing bottles of Wild Turkey. To keep Collie in Wilma's good graces, Sadie had been forced to describe how the boy had saved her from Hank—or rather, from The Ventilator. Apparently, Cass had already guessed Hank's alter ego. Rex was the one who'd enlightened her.
Then Rex dropped another bomb: he'd recruited Cass.
"Wait a minute. You sent him after Hank?" Sadie quailed at this news.
"He'd already made up his mind. I just made sure he wouldn't get arrested for it."
Sadie didn't like this plan, mostly because she was afraid Cass would come back in a pine box. But how could she protest? He was finally living his Ranger dream. She'd thought she would feel better, knowing he was on the right side of the law. Now she wondered how she would cope with the fear.
As if sensing her turmoil, Rex raised an eyebrow. "You have a problem with Cassidy going undercover?"
She steeled herself against a show of womanly weakness. "Of course not. We need a mole in Baron's organization. Cass can follow him back to the Rocking W. I can't."
Rex grunted. She didn't like the way those keen, gray eyes were assessing her, probing for the truth.
"The badge is a probationary measure. He'll have to prove himself."
"He will."
"You're that sure, eh?"
"Being a Ranger is all Cass ever cared about. You just made his life complete."
"What about you? And what you care about?"
A slow heat rolled up her neck. She felt betrayed by it. She didn't want Rex or anyone else know how she used to keep the fragile dream of marriage locked in the deepest, darkest chambers of her heart. Every now and then, during an especially maudlin bout of sentiment, she would drag out that cherished fantasy, polish it, admire it, and try it on for size—rather like a glass slipper.
But Sadie was a realist. Cass was a Ranger now. He couldn't marry her, and no other man could possibly want her as the mother of his child. Not after he learned how she'd lived 11 years of her life as a whore. Or how she'd let her five-year-old, twin sister drown.
"I'm a businesswoman," she answered coolly. "Money is my freedom. It lets me live the way I choose. That's what I've always wanted."
Rex darted a speculative glance at Wilma, who was careful to avoid Sadie's eyes. Annoyed with them both, she stalked from the room to pour a stiff drink.