Seduced by an Angel (Velvet Lies, Book 3)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  His only consolation was that as long as Sera was keeping Jesse's company, she wasn't likely to be abducted. Collie, on the other hand, was fending for himself. And that worried Cass.

  A furtive scrabbling distracted him from his sulk. He pricked his ears. The sound appeared to be coming from the barred window over his head.

  Warily, he swung his legs over the bed and retreated into a shadowy corner, his fork held like a weapon before him—since Luke had searched his clothes and relieved him of all his real weapons. Cass had no illusions about jail life: men died in prison from dysentery, riots, and abuses by their guards. To make matters worse, he had a crazed bounty hunter after his blood. Taggart could be anywhere—at the damned dance right outside the door, for instance.

  Cass steadied his breathing.

  He trained all his senses on that window.

  A silvery snout poked through the bars. It was quickly followed by beady, black eyes.

  A raccoon?

  Cass frowned.

  The varmint wasted no time dropping to Cass's mattress. The bedsprings shrieked abysmally under the creature's roly-poly girth. Cass made a face. He was tempted to rip off a boot and hurl it at the bandit, which he'd assumed had been attracted by the smell of spilled food.

  But the creature didn't even sniff at the beefsteak and boiled potatoes that littered the floor. Instead, the critter galloped across the pine boards, squeezed through the bars, and clambered up onto the marshal's desk. A heartbeat later, the coon had knocked the keys from a wall hook, ducked his head through the ring, had started dragging the contraption back to Cass's cell. The clanking metal made an abysmal racket.

  Cass grimaced. "Thunderation!" he cursed in an urgent undertone. "You want to wake snakes?"

  The raccoon whickered, rising up on his haunches and wrapping his hand-like forepaws around Cass's cell bars. Thanks to the mask on his face, and the moonbeams slanting across his dark coat, the coon looked like a prisoner wearing stripes.

  "Hilarious," Cass grunted, edging forward.

  But the critter didn't growl as Cass approached. Nor did the coon try to bite when Cass slipped the key ring over his head. Cass gave the varmint a wary pat.

  "Remind me to catch you a fish, or something."

  The raccoon trotted back through the cell's door to investigate the beefsteak as Cass rummaged through desk drawers in the moonlight. Not daring to light a lamp—mainly because he'd have to beat senseless whoever busted through the door to investigate—Cass muttered oaths as he jabbed his hands on stylus pens and broken badges. He figured Jesse was to blame for that. Yeah, Jesse was to blame for a lot things. Like telling Luke about Cass's secret pockets and holsters, where he hid his emergency weapons.

  Finally, triumphantly, Cass located his gun belt, widdy, knuckle dusters, and other tools of the outlaw trade. With a grim sense of satisfaction, he strapped on his Colt.

  "C'mon, Chubby," he muttered to the coon.

  The critter trotted at his heels as Cass hurried down the moonlit length of the hall and let himself out the rear door. He found himself in an alley. Collie was perched on the door's stoop, whittling.

  "Reckon a coon's got more uses than a hat," Collie drawled in stoic tones. He never missed a stroke with his knife.

  Cass had half a mind to thump him. "You trained this varmint?"

  "Naw. Vandy was born a jail-break artist."

  Cass scowled at this sarcasm. "Remind me to steal you a lock pick."

  "Remind yourself, Snake Bait. You're the one who has trouble busting out of jail."

  Vandy, meanwhile, was happily gobbling up more food—this time, the hickory-nut reward that was piled between Collie's boots.

  "Did you bring horses?"

  "'Course." Collie snapped his knife closed and stuck it in his front pocket. "Jelli's tethered by the undertaker's. Ain't nobody likely to be snooping around there at night."

  Quaint.

  "Think you can limp that far?" Collie demanded.

  "I'm fine," Cass snapped. "Where's Quaid? And the other tin stars?"

  "Keeping watch over the crowd."

  "Sera?"

  "Home," Collie grunted. "Sleeping by now, I expect."

  Cass considered his options. As much as he would have liked to confront Jesse and smash in his face, he had other, more practical matters to consider. Like his vow to protect Sera.

  "I have business at the doc's house," Cass said. "Think you can keep your ornery hide out of harm's way 'til morning?"

  "As I recollect, I ain't the gimp."

  "You're tempting fate, boy," Cass threatened half-seriously. "Go on then. Keep your head low and your eyes peeled. We'll rendezvous at Ywahoo Falls an hour after sunrise."

  * * *

  Sera couldn't sleep. After hours of crying, her head hurt, her nose was stuffy, and she felt like a massive weight was crushing her chest. She didn't know how to fix what she'd unwittingly helped to destroy: an 11-year-friendship.

  Jesse was a proud man. He'd gotten his dander up, even though he knew as well as she did that riding alone would increase his danger of a bushwhacking, a lynching, and a multitude of natural calamities, from heatstroke to snake bite.

  She wondered if Billy would be more reasonable and listen to her plea for a truce. He certainly wore his emotions more openly than Jesse did. During the churchyard brawl, Billy's shouts had been born from pain, not hatred: "Think I'm some no-account nobody? Think I'm some piece of White Trash you can toss aside like rotted meat?"

  Clearly, Billy wanted his best friend back. But how was she supposed to get the two of them to start talking without swinging fists?

  Sighing in exasperation, she tossed back her quilt and stomped her feet into her riding boots. Maybe a walk around the yard would clear her head. Or better yet, a visit with Tempest. She used to sneak out of the house every night to check on Tempest before Jesse had started sleeping in the stable. Those private "girl talks" with Tempest had always comforted Sera. When she needed to pour out her heart, no one listened better than her horse.

  Sera tied her purple-butterfly shawl around her night gown of lacy white muslin. She saw no reason to put on gloves. Ever since she'd met Jesse, her visions had grown steadily more persistent—whether she was wearing gloves or not. With practice, she was learning to control them. With control would come an end to the all-consuming, physical symptoms of her Episodes.

  Yes, indeed: Sera was looking forward to a life without gloves!

  Tiptoeing down the back stairs with a pair of carrots in hand, Sera slipped out the door and set off across the dew-drenched grasses. An enormous, yellow moon hovered in the sky, lighting the stable path so effectively, that she didn't need a lantern. She heard a coyote howl and an owl hoot. The wind carried the chorus of tree frogs. Or maybe they were cicadas. Jesse would be able to recognize the difference in the night's music.

  But of course, Jesse wasn't here.

  Fighting off the fresh threat of tears, she drew a bolstering breath.

  That's when she smelled the tobacco smoke.

  She stopped dead in her tracks. Feeling a little foolish, she turned left then right, trying to catch the scent again. It continued to elude her.

  She was just telling herself that she'd imagined the tobacco smoke, that she was wholly and completely alone in her own yard, when the chink of a spur registered on her hearing.

  Her stomach clenched. She whirled to face the stable. Her traitorous heart tripped, hoping against hope that Jesse had changed his mind about leaving town after the dance. That she would get to see him one last time.

  But Jesse wasn't the intruder. Billy was pacing the drive. Even though the rest of him was cloaked in black, and nearly invisible in the stable's shadow, the sheen of his white hair was unmistakable.

  When he skirted the rain barrel, he staggered a bit. Her first thought was that his leg must hurt. But when she hurried to assist him, she smelled the distinct odor of rotgut. Her steps faltered. She wrinkled her nose.

  "Now w
here are you going so late on a Friday night?" he drawled.

  "I... I was going to the stable. To treat Tempest."

  His eyes flickered over her carrots, then dismissed them. He appeared much more interested in surveying the sheer muslin of her nightrail.

  "Billy, what are you doing here?"

  He flashed his heart-tripping smile. "Protecting you, angel, just like I promised. At least 'til the doc wakes up."

  His speech was slightly slurred. Uneasily, she decided not to point out that a drunken protector wasn't an effective protector.

  "Jesse released you from jail?" she asked hopefully, thinking that they might have called a truce.

  His grin grew broader. "Sure. What'd you think?"

  She was relieved. "I'm so glad. Billy, I feel awful. Just awful about what happened this afternoon in the churchyard. I can't help but feel like your quarrel with Jesse is partly my fault."

  It is, Cass thought uncharitably. But he didn't tell her that. In truth, he didn't want to talk about Jesse. He had other things on his mind—like saucy black curls, riffled by the breeze. And rose-pink lips, gleaming lusciously in the moonlight.

  He could see the alluring outline of coltish legs beneath her sheer gown. He could imagine the lacy hemlines of her bloomers, hugging her thighs, and the hot little apex where those frilly unmentionables split.

  The trouble was, his conscience wouldn't let him do anything but imagine.

  He cursed himself for not drinking enough. He'd never needed much whiskey to fuel a fun-loving high, and he'd already polished off half his flask. Executing his self-imposed duty to guard the Jones's place until dawn, he'd been forcing himself to sip, rather than guzzle.

  So here he was, at a half-past midnight. Fate had dropped a virgin in his lap, and he was regrettably sober. Sobriety and virgins never mixed well in his mind. They always involved an inconvenient bout of guilt.

  Sera looked uncomfortable to be standing with him in the moonlight. She fidgeted. She avoided his eyes. Finally, she resorted to a virgin's first defense: prattle.

  "I've been wondering... Why does Jesse call you Cass?"

  He folded his arms across his chest. Ugh. Jesse again.

  "I reckon 'cause the eldest male in my family is always called Cass."

  "And you're the last of your line? Except for Becky, of course."

  He grimaced. He didn't want to talk about Becky, either.

  The fact was, he didn't want to talk about anything. He wanted to get up the gumption—and the lust—to rub navels.

  But Sera turned downright chatty: about her snooty brother in Colorado, about his high-falutin' mansion, about all the silver-mining moguls she would meet during Aspen's summer Social Season. Cass was tempted to grab her hair and kiss the living daylights out of her, just to prove how much fun Texas White Trash could be.

  Finally, she looked him straight in the eye and announced, "I know you're sweet on Sadie."

  "Who?"

  "Red hair. Golden eyes. I know, Cass."

  Big deal. The whole West Coast was sweet on Sadie. Parts of Mexico and Texas were sweet on Sadie. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if Lucifer himself was sweet on Sadie. Cass figured Sadie was the only mortal female in this century who could fire up the devil's bed like a supernova.

  "Lynx told you about Sadie, eh?"

  Sera shook her head. "I can see her in your future."

  Cass arched an eyebrow. McCoy had mentioned something about Sera's ability to see the future when she wasn't wearing gloves. However, Sera had been acting so normal for the last week, that Cass had forgotten.

  "Yeah?" he challenged dryly. "So what were Sadie and I doing in the future."

  "Raising babies. Growing old together. Bickering like fishwives. She doesn't like it when you ride off Rangering."

  Huh?

  Cass blinked at her gloveless hands. Then he laughed. "Lawdy, do you have the wrong Sadie and Cass!"

  She cocked her head. She locked those sky-blue vacant eyes with his. "You love her. No other woman will ever live up to your memory of her. Especially a small-town Kentucky girl who's only been kissed a couple of times in her whole life."

  "Meaning you?"

  "'Fraid so."

  "Hmm." He treated her to a devilish smile. "Well, I won't hold that against you, sugar. S'long as you hold your body next to mine."

  She blushed.

  "Cass, I care about you. I really do. That's why I can't bear to see you in pain. These visions... they show me how deeply Sadie hurt you. But you never let on. Not even to Jesse. He doesn't know that you cried because she didn't say good-bye. Or that you tossed the locket with her hair into the Colorado River. Or that you go on a bender every March 17th, not because it's St. Patrick's Day, but because it's her birthday."

  Chills tiptoed over Cass's scalp.

  "Cass," Sera continued gently, "I know that Jesse hurt you, too. Even though he didn't mean to. I wish I had some way to make things right between you both. The best I can do is bow out. Set you both free. Let you ride away and pray that somehow, you'll find a way to forgive each other. Because that's what good friends do."

  Cass tore his gaze from hers.

  "Jesse told me about the stage coach robbery and the blood feud with Taggart. I don't want any harm to come to either of you. I want you to ride away together, before it's too late. To look after each other. To keep each other safe.

  "That's why I told you about Sadie," Sera added with a tremulous smile. "I want you to have hope. Don't give up on your dreams, Cass. Especially about being a Texas Ranger."

  Five hours later, Cass was still haunted by that conversation with Sera. Every time he recalled the shattered look on her face, he felt guilty. Every time he remembered the tear rolling down her cheek, his chest hurt.

  Sera was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice: she was sending Jesse away.

  With me.

  Cass muttered an oath. He scrubbed his face with his hand.

  It came away wet with his tears.

  Jesse was the luckiest sonuvabitch alive. Sera was in love with him. She knew he was an outlaw. She knew he was an Injun. She didn't care!

  Now how am I supposed to convince that ornery cuss to settle down, live happily-ever-after, and marry that girl?

  Cass decided a pow-wow with Jesse was in order. Maybe not a truce, exactly. He was still working up to full-fledged forgiveness. But he was willing to share a peace-smoke. Hadn't he always said that Lynx rolled the best cigarettes north of the Rio Grande?

  Since smoke was now billowing out of the Jones's kitchen chimney, Cass figured it was safe to leave Sera in her brother's capable hands—even if the stars were still glimmering, and the moon was still riding high over the mountains.

  Cass heaved himself onto Jelli. He cantered the gelding toward town. When he got half way there, he realized that he'd left his Stetson on the rain barrel. Cursing like a muleskinner, he yanked Jelli's head around and spurred him back the way they'd come.

  That change of direction saved his life.

  A shot rang out.

  The bullet whizzed so close to his ear, that he felt it singe the hair on his left temple. He gasped, sawing back on the reins. Jelli reared. Cass crashed through a bush full of yellowbells.

  Hitting a mound of leaves was the last things he remembered before darkness deadened his mind.

  Chapter 19

  Jesse waded waist-deep past the slabs of limestone that formed natural waterfalls around Red River. A cascade of silver rivulets rolled down his naked chest as he headed for the boulder where he'd left his clothes.

  He hadn't slept well the night before. His dreams had been plagued, once more, by Coyotes getting shot and Eagles getting dragged from the sky. Shortly before dawn, he'd finally fallen into a troubled dose, which had made him snooze through the usual hour during which he performed his Go-to-Water ritual.

  Now, judging by the orange light that filtered through the oaks and hickories, he figured the time to be shortly after 7 a.m. He neede
d to get a move-on, if he wanted to catch up with Cass, who was probably half way to Tennessee by now. The time had come, Jesse mused grimly, for him and his Coyote pal to have a pow-wow. To discuss what Cass really knew about Polly Coltrane and Thorn Taggart.

  But most importantly, it was time for Cass to pay the piper for the way he'd treated Sera.

  In the back of Jesse's mind, he had always hoped that having a White boy as a best friend would allow him unrestricted entrée into the White man's world. In many ways, Cass's smart mouth, angelic face, and quick-draw talent had done just that.

  But to keep Cass as a friend for 11 years, Jesse had been forced to stifle the cries of his conscience many times. Too many times. No one knew better than Jesse how selfish and childish Cass could be. He was tired of Cass's drunken shoot-outs, his frequent arrests for brawling, his irresponsibility with money, his red-light district orgies...

  In short, Jesse was tired of looking the other way when Cass crossed the line. It was high time that Cass took responsibility for himself.

  A delicate cough interrupted Jesse's brooding and froze him, where he stood, in the river shallows.

  "We really should stop meeting like this," an all-too-familiar soprano teased him from the eastern bank, above.

  Jesse gulped a ragged breath and slowly relaxed his fingers over the fishing knife that he'd strapped to his bicep.

  Sera chuckled, a warm and sensuous sound. Silhouetted in morning fire, her head sported a halo—a slipping halo, he thought wryly. Raising his hand to shade his eyes, he saw that she was wearing his Stetson, as well as a primly buttoned, tweed riding jacket, a matching split-skirt, and immaculately polished boots. Meanwhile, she straddled his own boots and holster in a triumphant pose. His shirt and dungarees were dangling playfully from the fist that she held behind her back.

  "It's about time I got to sneak up on you for a change," she taunted.

  "Proud of yourself, are you?"