by Faye Adams
Riding into the small dusty town, he checked out the buildings as he looked for the sheriff’s office. He once more pulled his thoughts to his mission here. "Lady of the Gun, my eye," he muttered a few minutes later as he pulled his mount to a stop in front of the jail. Whoever started the ridiculous stories about a lady gunfighter had to be drunk or crazy, he thought. "Or just plain bored," he added out loud, letting his gaze wander down the quiet main street.
After swinging down from the saddle, he tethered his horse and brushed at the dust clinging to his clothes. Clouds of the stuff billowed from the fabric and caused him to grimace. “As soon as I put this thing to rest, I'm getting a bath and heading home," he muttered. Stepping up on the wooden sidewalk, he reached for the doorknob, only to have it pulled from his grasp as a woman nearly ran into him.
Cass stopped dead just before running headlong into the cowboy standing on the sidewalk in front of her. He was tall, and covered with dust from head to toe, an indication that he'd just come in from the trail. Years of experience in sizing men up had her instantly searching his eyes, eyes that had a cold edge to them when they met hers. Stepping back, she let her arms fall to her sides, waiting.
Marshal Ryder's cross mood showed on his face as he sized up the woman standing in the doorway of the jail, but he couldn't help it. He was tired, hot, and thirsty. And fuming over the assignment to find the Lady of the Gun. "Sorry, miss," he said, lowering the brim of his hat respectfully.
Cass let her eyes travel over the stranger’s body. He wore his gun low and strapped to his thigh. His stance was easy, giving the impression that he was relaxed, but she could see by his eyes, nearly hidden beneath the brim of his dark hat, that he was anything but relaxed. "That's all right," she returned. "I didn't think anyone would be coming into the sheriff's office so early. I should have been more careful." She backed several steps away from him, watching to see what move he'd make before she turned her back on him.
Ryder could see the woman was nervous. He also noticed she was beautiful, and was surprised it had taken him even a few seconds to realize it. I must be more tired than I thought, he mused. As he stepped toward the door of the jail, he saw her finally turn away from him and walk down the street. He leaned back from the door slightly to inspect the way the fabric of her trousers molded itself to her bottom and thighs. Raising a dark brow, he felt his body heat up at the sight of her round behind moving gracefully with her steps.
Jackson cleared his throat. "What can I do for you, young fella?" he asked, feeling a pang of jealousy he had no right to feel.
Ryder pulled his eyes away from the woman's curves and swung around to face the sheriff. Stepping into the office and holding out his hand, he introduced himself. "Marshal Brett Ryder, sir. You're Sheriff Jackson?"
Jackson took the offered hand. "Yeah. You here on business?” he asked, wondering who the marshal was after.
"Yes," he answered, feeling a little sheepish about divulging the ridiculous nature of his assignment.
"Well, then, come on in and sit down. Would you like some coffee?" Jackson offered.
Cass thought about the man she'd just encountered at the jail and felt her heart rate increase slightly. He was tall, much taller than she, which was unusual, and despite the dirt and dust that covered him, she could tell he was startlingly attractive. His body was hard and muscular, dark hair curled softly from under his hat, and his steely gray eyes had pierced hers when he spoke to her. The one descriptive word that kept coming to mind as she remembered him was ‘dangerous.’
Marshal Ryder sipped the strong brew Sheriff Jackson had poured him and leaned back in his chair. His mind kept flitting back to the woman he'd nearly run into. He was still surprised it had hit him after the fact that she was beautiful. Her thick, long hair had hung around her shoulders and down her back with just a slight curl turning it under. The blue of her eyes was a color to rival the sky on a clear day, and her mouth… he let himself relish the memory… her mouth was something a man could fantasize about.
"You were going to tell me why you're here?" Sheriff Jackson asked.
Ryder brought his thoughts back to the sheriff. "Yes.” He sighed. "I was sent here to check out the stories about a lady gunfighter. The Lady of the Gun, to be exact. Rumor has it she's killed four men. So far, the information indicates the gunfights were fair, but I'm supposed to determine if they were, and whether or not the lady should be brought up on charges of murder."
"Really?" Jackson asked, his bushy brows drawn up in surprise.
Ryder read disbelief on the sheriff's face. "Between you and me, I don't really believe any of it, either. It's probably a case of a woman getting a lucky shot off at someone who deserved it and the story getting blown out of proportion every time it's retold. I've found most gunfighters are more fiction than fact."
"Lady of the Gun, heh?" Jackson repeated the epithet with a little awe. He knew Cassidy had a reputation. He knew how she got it. But he'd had no idea she was becoming a legend.
"Can you believe it? Someone named her." Ryder laughed lightly. "She's probably some poor old woman who shot some fool who'd made the mistake of getting a little too drunk, then a little too fresh." He smiled into his cup as he sipped his coffee.
Jackson leaned back in his chair and grinned at the younger man. "I wouldn't call her ‘old’ to her face, Marshal. I have a feeling Cassidy'd take it personal."
Brett lowered his cup and sat up straighter. "Cassidy?"
"Yep. Cassidy Wayne."
"You know this woman?"
Jackson nodded his head and grinned once again. “Seen her nearly every day for most of her life. Except, of course, the last few years . . ." He trailed off, thinking about what she'd been doing during those years.
Brett couldn’t believe there was any validity to the stories he'd heard about the woman. Jackson must have misunderstood him. "I'm talking about a female gunfighter, Sheriff, not some little girl who grew up here."
Jackson raised one thick brow. "I know exactly who you were sent here to find. Fact is, you already found her."
It took a second for Brett to realize what the sheriff was saying. "The woman . . . That was her at the door?" he asked.
Jackson nodded. "Cassidy Wayne. Lady of the Gun, according to you." He took a deep drink of his coffee, draining his cup. "You want more?" he asked as he stood to get himself some more of the strong liquid.
Brett shook his head. His eyes were narrowed as he remembered the beautiful woman he'd nearly run into. She had been wearing guns. Twin Colts slung low on her hips and tied to her thighs. "Can she really shoot?" he asked.
Jackson finished filling his cup and turned back to the marshal. "Well, Marshal, I haven't actually seen it for myself, but the stories you heard weren't just stories. Cassidy's killed four men that I know of. I've heard rumors there were more, but those were just rumors. She's an honest person and owns up to the four."
"And you haven't arrested her?"
"The killings didn't happen here in Twisted Creek. Besides, I haven't received any wanted posters on her. From what I understand, she bested the men in fair fights."
"Four of them?"
Jackson sighed. "She has her reasons," he said.
"Has?" Brett wondered at the tense.
Jackson crossed to sit at his desk again. "Yeah. I'm afraid Cassidy isn't done killing yet."
Brett sat back slightly, surprised. "And you're just going to let her?"
Jackson narrowed his gaze a little as he looked at the younger man. "You don't know Cassidy, Marshal. I do."
"What difference does that make? You have a known killer in your midst, hell, in your office-and you just let her walk out to kill again? Are you the sheriff or aren't you?"
Jackson wouldn't let himself take offense at the marshal's question. He didn't know what led Cassidy to kill. "What were you told about this Lady of the Gun, Marshall?" he asked, ignoring Brett's words.
Brett sized up the sheriff as he evaded his question. He
could tell the older man wasn't afraid of confrontation; he was merely avoiding it for his own reasons. Deciding to let it go, he answered, "Not much. My superiors got wind of a story spreading across the West about a lady gunfighter. There were rumors of the four killings. I was sent to investigate the story's validity, to see if there were grounds to make an arrest."
Jackson summed up Ryder's explanation. "I'm sorry you came so far for nothing, Marshal. Cassidy does exist, but there's no reason to arrest her. If there was, she'd already be warming one of those cells," he said, tipping his head back in the direction of the jail cells down the hall.
Brett sipped the last bit of coffee from his cup. There was more to this story and he found himself wanting to know what it was. "Why'd she do it…turn gunfighter, I mean?"
"Why do most folks?"
"Money?" Brett knew that wasn't the answer before he got the word out. When Jackson didn't respond, he tried again. "I've found most gunfighters want the fame and glory they think goes with the reputation, but I doubt that's her reason. You wouldn't be so ready to defend her if those were her motives."
“I haven't exactly defended her," said Jackson.
"No, but you haven't exactly been jumping up and down to have me arrest her, either."
Jackson shrugged. "You still haven't hit on the reason a sweet girl like Cassidy would turn gunfighter."
Brett remembered the woman again. He forced his mind's eye away from the curve of her butt and the way she'd filled out the shirt she wore, and remembered the way she'd looked at him. Yes, she was beautiful. But sweet? No. ‘Sweet’ was the last word Brett would have used to describe her. Her eyes were hard. The clear blue had penetrated his with a challenge. She'd even taken a defensive stance, which he should have noticed, and would have if he'd been looking for a man. Shaking his head slightly, he wondered what had put the hard edge into her expression.
"Revenge?" he finally asked.
Chapter Two
“Revenge can be a powerful motivator," Jackson said, looking over the rim of his cup at the young marshal.
"And she has reason enough to kill four men, maybe more?"
"One more, at least. She's determined to kill the man who was responsible for the destruction of her family."
"Destruction? Isn’t that a strange word to use about people?"
Jackson lowered his eyes as he remembered what he'd found the day he'd been summoned out to the Wayne’s place. "No, Marshal. Cassidy was the first to use that word, and it couldn't be more right. Her ma and pa, two brothers and her little sister were all murdered while she watched."
Brett sat very still while what he'd just heard sank in. "Why?" he asked softly.
Jackson raised his brows in question. "Why were they murdered?”
“Why was she spared?" asked Brett.
Jackson pursed his lips together tightly for a moment before speaking. "It was plain dumb luck that kept her alive, and sometimes I think she wishes she'd died with her folks. She wasn't at home early that morning. She'd gone to visit her uncle. She came back in time, though, to see the last of the killing. She hid and watched." Jackson looked at the top of his desk without seeing it. "Never saw nothin’ like it, myself. And I never saw the likes of Cassidy after it happened. She didn't cry. At least not in front of folks. She just bought those two guns she always wears and started practicing. Darby, that's her uncle, he once told me he had to massage her hands every night because of the cramps she'd get from shooting for hours without stopping." Jackson looked up at Brett then. "I hear she shoots equally well with either hand."
Brett digested Jackson's story and found himself pitying the girl she must have been. "You still haven't told me why her people were killed."
Jackson heaved a heavy sigh. "Wish I could. Nobody knows why."
Brett leaned forward, his curiosity truly piqued at this point. "Weren't there any clues? How did Cassidy find four of the men? Didn't you get a posse…?"
"Whoa, Marshal," Jackson said, raising a hand to the younger man. "Hell, yes, I rounded up a posse to go after the bastards, but we lost their trail. As for clues, they were mostly in Cassidy's head. Still are." He rubbed his face tiredly. "And now, after all this time, she's got me goin' out to question a man I know had nothing to do with those murders." He stood up. "Hell, I might as well get going now and get it over with."
Brett stood up with the sheriff. "You say you know the man had nothing to do with the murders?"
Jackson nodded.
"Then why does Cassidy think he did?"
"She's got some fool notion Mr. Tylo benefited from her family's death."
"Tylo?" Brett repeated the name, making a mental note to remember it.
"Yeah. Hunt Tylo. He owns the lazy T, the largest ranch in the area. Anyway, I'm going out there more to protect Tylo from Cassidy than to ask him questions. She said she'd question him if I didn't, and I hate to think of the way she'd do it." He reached for his hat, hanging behind his desk, and placed it levelly on his head. "So, Marshal, can I do anything for you before you leave?”
"I don't think so, Sheriff. I'll want to speak briefly to Cassidy before I go, of course," Brett said as he walked toward the door, Jackson close behind him.
"Sure, sure. I understand. She didn't tell me where she was going when she left my office, but I could swing by her place on my way back from the Lazy T. If she's not there I can leave word that you want to talk to her." Jackson opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.
"No, thanks, Sheriff. I appreciate the offer, but I'd like the advantage of surprise, if you don't mind. It helps to get straight answers. I'm sure you understand." Brett's steely eyes met Jackson's. He was certain the man had no understanding at all of proper questioning procedures or of murder investigations. His botched job on the Wayne murders and Cassidy's subsequent killings were proof of that. Brett softened his gaze slightly and forced a smile.
Jackson nodded and returned the marshal's smile, though for a moment the younger man's expression had unnerved him a bit.
"I think I'll have breakfast and get a hot bath before I look for Cassidy," Brett informed Jackson, still with the feigned smile. He stretched, trying to appear casual, and let his gaze slide quickly down the street in the direction Cassidy had gone. No sign of her, he noticed. "I guess I'll see you later, Sheriff," he said as he began walking away.
Jackson raised a hand in farewell to the retreating marshal. "Yeah, Marshal. I should only be gone a couple of hours."
Brett heard the sheriff mount and ride away. He then turned slowly and watched Jackson in the distance. Five-year-old unsolved murders. A woman who'd already killed at least four men and then announced to the local sheriff that she wasn't done killing yet. What had he ridden into? He felt a familiar tightening in his gut, the tension that always preceded his getting involved in something big. "It seems this wild-goose chase might in fact get pretty wild before it's over," he breathed.
Cass was disappointed; her saddle wouldn't be ready until later that day. She'd wanted to head straight home, but because of the delay she decided to get some breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Sitting safely with her back to the wall, and with a clear view of the room, she sopped up the last of the thick sausage gravy with a chunk of buttermilk biscuit. Scanning her surroundings, she found herself thinking about the stranger she'd nearly run into at the sheriff's office. His eyes bothered her. The way he'd met her stare. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that her first assumption was correct, he was dangerous. But what would a dangerous man be doing at the sheriff’s office? Usually his kind of man avoided the law.
She glanced down at her empty plate, then drained the last of her coffee. Who was he? And what was he doing in Twisted Creek?
"You done here, Cassidy?" the waitress, Rosie Shafer, asked.
Cass smiled up at the young woman and noticed the weak smile she received in return. Almost sighing out loud, she set her empty cup down and softly touched the rim. "A little more, please?" she a
sked,
Rosie nodded and turned away from the table, but not before glancing down at the guns strapped to Cass's sides.
Cass did sigh after Rosie left. It was too bad her uncle Darby was right about the townspeople being a little afraid of her. She'd known Rosie most of her life, had gone to school with the chubby redhead, had even been to several of her birthday parties. Now Rosie would barely speak to her, only did because she was a waitress and Cass was a customer. Cass watched as she returned with the coffee pot "Thanks," she offered.
Rosie only nodded and left the table quickly.
Cass shrugged off the snub. I should be used to it, she thought.
Once again scanning the room, she felt her pulse take a giant leap as the stranger entered the restaurant.
It took Brett less than a second to see Cassidy sitting across the restaurant watching him. His nerves jumped, and the hair along the back of his neck and arms stood on end. Here was the infamous Lady of the Gun, the woman he'd been sent to find. He narrowed his eyes as he studied her.
This time it didn't take him seconds to see her beauty. She'd removed her hat and thick waves of chestnut hair glistened in the sunlight pouring through a window not far away. Her features were even and lovely. Her eyes were startlingly blue and surrounded by thick black lashes. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth. The moist curve of her full, pouty lips caused him to swallow as a rush of blood began the trail to his loins. It was then he realized she was staring just as intently at him and her eyes had never left his. She was waiting. Waiting to see what kind of a threat he'd be to her. She doesn't know I'm a marshal, he realized with surprise. Taking a step in her direction, he noticed her right hand slip beneath the table.
"Mister, you alone?" asked Rosie, holding a menu toward the stranger.
Brett blinked as he was distracted. "What?"
"You sittin' alone, or are you waitin' for someone?" Rosie explained.
