by Faye Adams
"All the more reason for you to stay away from Ramsey."
"Too late. He's picking me up at noon on the Fourth."
"I'll be watching you."
"You can't follow us around all day."
"Why not?"
"He'll think you're crazy."
"I won't be that obvious. You could invite me to join you," he said, liking the thought of thwarting Ramsey's plans, whatever they might be.
"I don't think so," she replied. "If Ramsey knows his father is guilty, this outing could be a good opportunity for me to find out. If he doesn’t . . . well . . .” She trailed off, spurring her mount to a faster gait, not wanting to take this conversation any further.
Brett glowered at her. How could she be so obstinate? She was deliberately putting herself in danger without regard to how he felt about it, or her. Speeding up his own horse, he spoke. "Didn't last night mean anything to you?”
Cass's gaze darted to Brett, her face reddening at the memory. "I know what it meant to you, a reason to stick your nose in my business,” she accused.
"It gave me a reason to care about what happens to you,” he said softly.
Cass didn't say a word in answer. She studied Brett’s eyes until he turned away from her, then stole glances at his profile as they rode silently toward her home. He was devastatingly handsome. Dark and wild. Every time she thought about what they'd done together the night before, her blood pressure shot through the roof and her heart hammered in her chest like the hooves of wild horses. Her body grew hot and felt as if it were melting from the inside out. The problem with feeling this way was that it interfered with what she had to do. If flirting with Ramsey Tylo would bring her closer to finding out the truth about her family, and in the end help her find the last man, the man with the silver gun, it was worth it. She would do what she had to. If she hurt Brett in the process, so be it.
Her gaze skimmed his handsome features again, and her heart did a little flip, sending blood flooding through her veins with a jolt. She didn’t really want to hurt him. “Brett, I'm sorry, but this is something I have to do.”
"You don't have to put yourself in danger.”
"I have to finish what I started.”
"You don't have to kill the last man. I’ll find out who he is and bring him to trial. You’ll see your justice.”
Cass met his eyes. “What if he gets off? What then?”
Brett couldn't answer. It happened sometimes if there wasn't enough evidence to convince a judge and jury, or if the criminal could afford a tricky lawyer who knew all the loopholes. Sometimes the crook got away with his crime. "It won't happen," He promised.
"You can't say that for sure, Brett. My way finishes the job once and for all."
"And what about afterward?" he questioned her. "What do you do with your life after you've killed so many men?"
Cass lowered her eyes. "I haven't thought much about the future. I always knew there was a chance I'd lose one of those gunfights."
"Have you thought about what your death would do to your uncle?"
"He'd get over it," she said defensively.
"Do you really believe that?"
Cass took a deep breath. "He did fine while I was gone."
"Only because he could hope you'd come home again. If you were dead he'd be alone, Cass. You're all he's got left."
Her eyes filled with hatred. "I'm all he's got left because of Hunt Tylo. I'm going to finish this, Brett. If you don't want to help, just stay out of my way." Pulling her horse to a stop, she glared at him, defying him to argue with her again.
"You may find that the price you ultimately pay isn't worth the revenge you seek," he said quietly.
"It'll be worth it," she said. "This is where you turn off to go to town. I guess I'll see you on the Fourth."
"Unless I can talk you out of your social engagement with Ramsey."
"You can't."
"Then I'll see you on the Fourth."
Chapter Eight
Cass saw Brett before the Fourth. She saw him at Sheriff Jackson's funeral the next day. As they stared at each other across the open grave, she felt his thoughts, his desire for her to end her quest for revenge. She shook her head almost imperceptivity, only to have him frown at her. He then stared at her abdomen, reminding her that they could have created a baby together, as if she needed reminding.
When the minister had finished his graveside sermon, Brett crossed to where Cass stood waiting to toss a handful of dirt on the coffin, "He seemed to be a good man,” he said softly.
“He was," she answered solemnly.
"It could have been an accident.”
She looked up into his eyes. "It wasn’t. There was blood on his saddle."
"I saw it."
"It was on the right side.”
"I know. That doesn't prove anything."
Cass stopped the slow shuffling walk they’d been making in line to the grave, '"Tell me, Brett. Do you mount a horse from its left or its right?"
"Cass ..." he said exasperatedly.
"Tell me."
"So the blood was on the right side and horses are mounted from the left. That doesn't prove he was murdered."
"It proves he was struck while still on horseback. It proves he was already bleeding when he fell off the right side."
Brett sighed. "It looks that way, but since he was alone when it happened, we can't prove it. Look, Cass, anything could have happened."
"You and I both know what happened. There just isn't anything you can do about it. Isn't that right, Marshal?"
Sighing again, he responded, "For now."
"Well, I don't want to wait patiently until Tylo decides to write out a confession. I have a feeling it'd be a while," she said sarcastically.
Brett glanced at the people standing behind them. "Come on, we're holding up the line."
Cass stepped closer to the grave and dropped the warm dirt she'd been squeezing tightly in her fist. It hit the casket with a thud. Walking away with Brett at her side, she paused when they were far enough from the other mourners not to be heard. "Did you notice who's absent from this little gathering?"
Brett glanced back at the people paying their last respects over the grave. "The Tylos," he said, adding, "Both Tylos." He gave her a meaningful stare.
"And why, when practically everyone in town showed up for this funeral, do you think that they are so glaringly absent? And why are none of the Lazy T men here either?"
"You can't blame them for murder just because they don't show up for a funeral."
"You know something? When I was growing up, I thought it would be wonderful to be a sheriff or marshal. Lawmen always seemed to have so much power and control. But I've found out since then that you have almost no power. You tie yourselves so tightly in the law that you can barely move. I'll keep doing things my way. You do, or don't do, them your way. Good day, Marshal.” She turned and left him standing alone.
Brett watched her go. Joining her uncle and Soony as they headed toward their wagon, she mounted her horse for the ride home. She was the most stubborn, and most beautiful, woman he'd ever known.
Walking from the cemetery back into town, Brett decided he needed a drink. Entering the Best Bet, he let his eyes adjust to the dim light of the saloon for a moment before he headed to the bar. Then, leaning on its shiny top, he called out, "Whiskey, please.”
Jaybird turned toward the voice and scowled. “Just a minute."
Brett knew he'd wait longer than a minute. Jaybird didn't like him, and he had to admit there wasn’t any love lost on his part for the big man. Turning his back to the bar, he scanned the room while he waited. Several girls, perched provocatively on chairs or on customers' laps, smiled in his direction, hoping for future business. Two poker games were in progress, and a man played the piano in a corner of the room.
Brett looked for Sharky. The old man was a character, and talking to him or losing some money to him might just take his mind off Cass and her trouble for an hour or two. Walking to
one of the tables, he watched for a break between games. "Any of you boys seen Sharky around today?” he asked.
"Nope. Ain't seen him in a while,” one man answered.
"Didn't show up for our game last night,” another added.
"Thanks," Brett said and headed back to the bar.
Once again leaning on the cool wood of the polished bar, he thought about what the second man had said. Sharky hadn't shown up for a poker game. His eyes narrowed as he pondered this. Sharky was a gambler, his chosen game, poker. He wouldn’t have missed a scheduled game unless something was wrong.
"So what do you want?" Jaybird asked in a belligerent tone.
Brett looked up. He hadn't seen Jaybird approach him. "Nothing. I've changed my mind." Pushing himself quickly away from the bar, he turned and headed for the door, leaving Jaybird standing with his mouth open, pondering the wisdom of leaving a customer, even a customer he didn't particularly like, alone too long. He'd just missed a sale.
Brett walked to the hotel, his boot heels digging into the dusty street with each hurried step. Once inside, he approached the registration desk. "Did Sharky check out?" he asked.
The man sitting against the wall behind the counter looked up from his newspaper and blinked his surprise at the marshal's urgent tone. "What's that?"
"Did Sharky Draper check out?" Brett repeated.
The man stood up and met Brett at the counter. "Old Sharky? No, he's still registered," he answered.
"Have you seen him since the day before yesterday?" Brett asked.
The man scratched his forehead with his thumb. "No, can't say as I have. But that don't mean nothin'. Sharky sometimes gets to drinkin' and don't come in for days."
"He's not at the saloon and he missed a poker game last night."
The man frowned slightly. "Well, that don't sound like Sharky."
Brett scowled. "No, it doesn't. Does he have any hangouts other than the saloon?"
The man glanced past Brett to an old rocking chair in a corner beside a window. "Right there. If he ain't in his room or at the bar, that's where you'll find him."
"May I check his room?"
"It's a little out of the ordinary." the man paused a second, "but Sharky's a good old bird. I reckon it'd be alright."
Brett took the key and was told which room was Sharky's. It seemed he'd been staying in the same room off and on for as long as he'd been coming through Twisted Creek.
Standing outside the door, Brett got a terrible feeling of dread. What if the old man was lying dead inside the room? Turning the key in the lock, he twisted the doorknob and pushed inward. The room was empty. It didn't even look as though anyone had been using it. Had Sharky left town?
Brett walked farther into the room. It was then he noticed the corner of a battered carpetbag sticking out from under the bed. Reaching down, he picked it up and opened it. It was empty. He tossed it on the bed and crossed to the armoire. opening it, he found Sharky's few clothes hanging neatly on wire hangers. An extra pair of shoes had been placed side by side on the bottom shelf, his toiletries in a small leather case on the top shelf. Sharky was a neat man, and he definitely hadn't checked out. "Where are you?" Brett breathed, his chest filling with concern.
Back downstairs a little while later, he tossed the key on the counter.
"'Well?" the desk clerk asked.
"His things are still up there," Brett answered.
"I didn't think Sharky would run out on us," The clerk sighed, obviously relieved. "Like I said, he probably just got drunk somewhere and is right now sleepin' it off'"
"I hope you're right," Brett murmured as he left the hotel.
While eating dinner the previous night, Cass had felt herself getting anxious about going to the Fourth of July celebration with Ramsey.
"I'm glad to see you're starting to act like a normal 'woman, Cass," her uncle said as he passed the potatoes.
Cass laughed at his lack of tact, but couldn't help the pang of guilt she felt at deceiving her uncle about her motive for spending time with Ramsey.
“I have to say I'm disappointed you're going with Ramsey, though. I never did like that boy."
"He's grown up, Uncle," she offered in explanation.
"Maybe ..." Darby let the word dangle between them.
Cass grimaced. "Well, I've already given him my word," she said. "It's too late to cancel now." She wouldn't if she could.
"I'd have thought you'd be going with that handsome young marshal."
"I don't want anything to do with the marshal," Cass replied, her eyes open wide with surprise at her uncle's comment.
"Really? I thought you two looked real good together. I think he thought so, too."
"You can both think what you like. It's what I think that counts, and I think he's an interfering busybody, and you should mind your own business, too." She smiled when she said this last.
"All right, all right. But if that marshal rides out of your life before you come to your senses, don't blame me," he said.
"Humph," she snorted.
"Most ladylike," Darby commented. "I'm sure Ramsey will love that particular noise."
Cass began to giggle. Darby joined in, and even Soony began to chuckle. "I love you, Uncle," Cass said through her laughter.
Darby suddenly got serious. "I love you too, Cassidy. I'm so glad you're back home where you belong."
Cass's mirth quickly dissipated. Brett's words about what Darby would do if she was killed came back in a flash. Angry that he could manage to ruin a wonderful moment when he wasn't even there, Cass frowned down at her plate.
"Something wrong with the food, Missy Cass?" Soony asked, noticing her expression.
Cass looked up quickly. "No, everything is wonderful. I was just thinking about something ... someone," she amended.
"Someone?" inquired Darby.
"Someone who makes me very angry, Uncle Darby," she explained.
"Someone who makes you frown at your food? Someone who wears a marshal's badge, maybe?"
"Oh, shut up and eat your dinner," she groused good-naturedly.
The following morning Cass rose early, nervous about the prospect of spending the day with Ramsey. Crossing to wash up at the basin, she stared hard at her reflection in the mirror. It suddenly occurred to her that she'd never been on an outing with a man before. She'd been so young when her family was killed that she hadn't started spending time with gentleman callers yet, and after that . . well, she'd never been interested. Now here she was, getting ready to spend the day with Ramsey and it was no more than a ruse to gain information about his father.
Crossing to her bureau, she pulled out a chemise, pantaloons, and stockings. She so rarely wore dresses that her undergarments had actually gotten dusty sitting in a drawer. She shook them off and sniffed them to make sure they smelled fresh. The fragrant sachet she kept in the drawer had done its job, and the fabric smelled sweet. “Thank God," she murmured. She didn't have time to do laundry now.
Cass only owned two dresses, one that she wore to church, when she went, which wasn't often, and one that was a bit fancier. She'd seen it in a store window in Denver right after she'd been released from jail for killing one of the murderers. She'd needed something to make her feel alive again. The creamy creation hanging in the store window had done the trick. She'd purchased it, and the shoes and reticule to go with it, and brought it, still wrapped in the store paper, all the way home and hung it in her armoire. She'd never worn it. Today she pulled it out and laid it across the bed.
"It's so beautiful," she crooned, carefully fingering the soft crepe fabric. The neckline was high, but the lace bodice was lined only from the breasts down; the rest would let her skin show through behind it. The leg-o'-mutton sleeves were solid crepe on top and lace from the elbows down. The waistline was tight and fitted in front to just below her hips. A small bustle accentuated the back, and ribbons hung to the floor from gathered material. Sighing, she straightened up and began to dress.
After donning her undergarments, she lifted the dress over her head and let it slide down around her body. The soft feel of the fabric against her skin reminded her of the way Brett had touched her, sending a heated flush to light her body. She couldn't help but wonder what he would say if he saw her in such feminine attire. Then, shaking her head, she thought, "I don't give a damn what you'd think, Brett Ryder."
"Cass, my goodness, you're beautiful!" explained Darby an hour later when she emerged from her room.
"Thank you," she replied, blushing at his compliment. She did feel pretty. She'd spent a long time on her hair, sweeping part of it up and catching it with a cream-colored ribbon that matched the dress. The rest flowed in chestnut curls down her back.
Soony came out of the kitchen at that precise moment and began to clap his hands. "Very pretty, Missy Cass. Very pretty."
She smiled shyly. So far, so good, she thought. Now if only Brett…no, Ramsey, she reminded herself, correcting her wayward thoughts…if he thinks I looked pretty, I should be able to ask him questions without his being any the wiser, she told herself.
Cass was sitting on a kitchen chair, afraid to move lest she get dirty, when Ramsey drove his buggy into her yard at exactly twelve o'clock. Walking out to meet him, she knew she'd done well by the look in his eyes.
Jumping down from the buggy, he took her hands and openly studied her figure. "Father told me after you left the other day that if he were twenty years younger he'd court you himself. After seeing you today, I daresay I'd fight him for you. You're divine."
Sinking into a tiny curtsy, she smiled up at him and suffered the squeezing contact of his hands holding hers. "Thank you, sir. You look divine yourself," she said, attempting to flirt, letting her gaze take in his tall, thin physique. He’d worn a soft camel-hair coat and light, wool trousers. His vest was gold brocade, his shirt, the finest starched linen, but none of his finery could compensate for what he lacked in stature. His body had none of the strong width of Brett's, and try as she might, Cass couldn't help comparing the two men.
He released her hands and bowed before her. "Thank you, Miss Wayne," he said formally, but with a teasing twinkle in his eye. "Shall we?" he said, pointing to the buggy.
