Devil in Texas(62)

"Hank kidnapped her and took her to the cottage."

Cass cursed vehemently. So Jazi was the "Miss Reynolds" whom Baron had written into his will.

Since Cass's gun belt and Bowie knife were missing—and no doubt in Hank's possession—Cass drew a stiletto from his shirt collar and started sawing his ankle bonds. "When did you hear Hank and Poppy talking?"

"Hard to tell. A minute feels like a day in this place."

"Then we're burning daylight."

"Got ya covered, pard." Collie pulled a lock pick from his cuff.

By the time Cass had sawed through the last loop of hemp, thunder was concealing the sound of the opening door and its squealing hinges.

"Nice timing, kid."

"That was planned," Collie said loftily.

Cass didn't doubt the kid's word. Collie's survival instincts were downright uncanny.

As Cass joined the boy on the threshold, wind kicked up brown, crackling leaves and whisked them inside the mausoleum.

"Hand me the Remington in your boot."

Collie didn't argue for once. But then, he wasn't the deadeye Cass was.

"You'll find a Winchester in Pancake's saddleboot," Cass said.

"Assuming Hank didn't get to Pancake first."

"Good point. You got some other plan?"

Collie's smile was grim. "I stashed my Winchester and my ammo under a bush."

Cass nodded, snapping open the Remington to check for bullets. "Once you get your rifle, circle through the woods to the front of the house. Create a diversion. I'll take the back."

With a terse nod, the boy set off with his coon for the treeline. Cass covered them until they were out of the .38's range. Then he turned his attention to the house. He'd sent Collie on the safer route—the landscaped route—because little more than tombstones stretched between the mausoleum and the back porch. The last grave marker was positioned some 20 yards below the wall of limestone ringing the yard.

Even if a sniper wasn't the best of marksmen, all he'd have to do is sit in an upper window—or behind the chimney—to pick off anyone who approached the wall from Cass's direction. Under those circumstances, running up the hill would be suicide.

Cass hoped Hank had reached this conclusion, too, and therefore, was focusing his rifle on the front of the house.

Grimly, Cass waited for Collie to fetch his Winchester and get in position.

Daylight was fading fast.

* * *

Boiling black thunderheads obscured the setting sun as Randie and Sadie crouched in a thicket about 50 yards below the front of the caretaker's cottage. For ease of movement, they'd donned white linen tunics and denim trousers, which they'd rolled to their knees. Only their boot toes could be seen beneath woolen mantles of forest-green and chocolate-brown plaid, which Wilma had hoped would be hard to spot against the backdrop of autumn trees.

To complete their disguises, they'd styled their hair in similar fashions and tied on black velvet masks. Under the gloom of a thunderstorm, Sadie felt confident she could pass for Randie—as long as Poppy didn't get too close. If her mask was challenged, Sadie would say she had come directly from a Halloween party.

As for Randie, the plan was to use her as a diversion, mostly because Randie had insisted on galloping heroically, if futilely, into hell to save her daughter. Sadie had the devil of a time convincing the older woman to wait in the woods for Marshal Wright. God only knew where Rex and Cass were.

"Now. Promise me you'll stick to the plan," Sadie told her avenging-angel-of-a-cohort. "Poppy's dangerous."

Randie snorted. "To children."

"That kind of thinking can get you killed."

Randie's jaw hardened. She gazed dubiously down her voluptuous figure, which was now swathed in 14 layers of silk and cotton batting. "I thought you trusted these vests."

"Like I said, Rex swears by them." Actually, Sadie had entrusted her life to the vest on several Pinkerton assignments, but she couldn't very well tell Randie that. "The gambler, Luke Short, practically invented these vests. He was an acquaintance of mine, back in Dodge City. He once survived an assassination attempt because the silk handkerchief in his breast pocket stopped the bullet. I don't know why silk stops slugs, but it does. The batting is extra protection."

"So if the vest works, then I'm safe. Quit hen-pecking."

"The vest will protect your vital organs, but it won't protect you from a bullet in the head. Or anywhere else."

"I think you're forgetting Boo is my daughter. I should be the one to rescue her!"

Sadie was hard-pressed not to shake the woman. "Boo needs a live mother to tuck her in tonight, not a corpse to mourn on All Saints Day.

"Here, take these," Sadie added gruffly, pressing two of her detachable buttons into Randie's hand. "When one hits the ground, it makes a black cloud of smoke. It will give you camouflage if you need to run."

"What about you?"

"Oh, I have a few tricks up my sleeve. Don't worry about me." Sadie spun the wheel on her Smith & Wesson. "I can hold off Poppy's hired gun until reinforcements arrive."

Randie slid a sideways glance her way. "You're not what you pretend to be, are you... Sadie?"

"Is that a crack about my sharpshooting or my singing?"

Randie's pale lips carved out a tense smile. "Let's just say, I still think you're a bitch. But I'm glad you're a bitch on my side."

"Back at ya, sister." Sadie winked. Then she drew a sobering breath. "All right. Sit tight. Marshal Wright will be here soon."

Randie nodded fretfully.

Giving the soprano's hand a fortifying squeeze, Sadie tugged her mask over her face and began slinking through the thirsty, crackling underbrush in the woods. Because the cottage sat on a hill, it would be hard to approach unseen. Nevertheless, Sadie did her best to time her movements through the open spaces to coincide with the thunder, not the lightning. Every time sky fire spat, it rent her shadow-cover and lit up the woods. Ghostly shimmers danced over leafless pecans and ancient elms; evergreens soughed mournfully in the rising wind.

Sadie gritted her teeth, tightening her fist over her gun. Halloween––in a thunderstorm—was one hell of a night to be in a cemetery. But Cass had always called her the Devil's Red-haired Daughter, hadn't he? She took comfort in that.

No lanterns or candles burned in the dilapidated shell of the caretaker's cottage. Sadie crouched for many long moments behind a crooked tombstone, studying the ruins, trying to guess where Jazi might be hidden. What looked like a smokehouse, toolshed, and root cellar were still part of the property. Heavy wood rot—or maybe termite damage—was apparent on all of the structures. Sadie suspected that anyone who dared to step foot inside the auxiliary buildings would splinter a floorboard and bust an ankle.

The main house didn't look much safer. Through narrowed eyes, she scanned the roof, then nearby trees, for signs of a sniper. If Poppy's accomplice was lying in wait with a rifle, he'd done a masterful job of hiding himself. Streaks of lightning failed to illuminate the brass receiver of a Winchester anywhere overhead.

But they did illuminate something small, round, and shimmery in the sun-cracked dirt of the drive.

Sadie caught her breath.

A pearl!

No. Three pearls. And there was a fourth! The gems and been dropped at irregular intervals as if someone had been marking a trail!

Her heart thudded against her ribs as she adjusted her eyes to the dancing sheets of light. Every time the sky brightened, she lost track of the shimmer that heralded the pearls. She gritted her teeth. Patience had never been her strong suit, and her nerves were already stretched as tight as fiddle strings. She squinted into the flickers. The pearls appeared to be heading toward...