She'd barely glanced his way. He steeled himself against a flare of temper. He was Coyote Cass, after all. He could charm the rattle off of rattlers.
Strolling to the side of the bed, he was careful to keep his expression enthusiastic rather than provocative. There would be plenty of time for romping in the daisies and buttercups by the river, where he planned to spread a blanket, pop a bottle of champagne, and practice all the creative ways that Sadie had taught him how to use whipped cream and berries. Maybe even honey.
"What's that chubby, black dot with the flagpole rising out of it?" he asked, knowing full well that it was a musical symbol. He remembered that much from his idylls with Sadie in Pilot Grove.
"Music."
"What kind of music?" he persisted, undaunted by her growl.
She blew a curl off her forehead. "The usual kind."
"A love ballad?"
Her stylus paused as those tawny Tiger eyes glared up at him. He just loved when Sadie glared. He didn't mind arguing with the hellcat one bit. Not when her make-up sex was so divine.
"When have you ever heard me sing about love?" she snapped.
"Maybe it's time."
She muttered something under her breath that sounded like, "Dreamer."
He waited expectantly. She was scribbling again.
"Can I hear it?"
"When it's done."
"Is the song about me?"
"Nope."
"If it's a bawdy song, it should be about me."
She snorted.
Smirking, he thought fast. The only person in the world who thrived on competition more than he did was Sadie.
Calling upon a credible baritone—one that Sadie had once described as "lyrical"—he belted out an improvised rhyme:
With looks that drive the gals insane,
He rides them like a hurricane...
His musical lampoon succeeded. Her lips twitched. Her stylus actually lowered.
"Not bad," she conceded grudgingly. "Where did you hear that? From Wilma's piano player?"
"Hell, no. I made it up."
"You did not."
"I did too!"
She hiked a challenging eyebrow. "Right here? On the spot?"
"Damn straight! Wanna hear another?"
Hooking his thumbs over his gun belt, he swaggered around the room, acting adorable.
"He rides like greased lightning
Atop his black steed,
The handsome young Ranger,
Renowned for good deeds,
To rescue the damsel,
Alone in her bed
From cold eggs and boredom
And songs in her head.
Away to the river,
He carries the lass
To woo her and feed her
And kiss her bare..."
"Cass!" she shrieked, her laughter ringing through the room in merry peals.
He chuckled, pleased by her earthy humor. "I reckon Cass rhymes, too," he said, enjoying the way her grin crowded her freckles together.
"You are a pest. And pests should be spanked."
"Never argue with a lady. That's my motto."
"Is it, now?" She tossed aside her stylus and swung her naked feet to the floor. "Since when?"
"Since I was... uh..." He gulped. "Sun-up?"
He'd lost the use of his brain the moment she'd started shrugging off that scanty black waterfall of lace. Nothing but freckles adorned her alabaster flesh now.
"Maybe you've confused me with someone else, lover," she drawled.
She was prowling closer, all sizzle and sin. By the time she halted before him, his loins were hot, and his mouth was watering. He licked his lips. Those wicked, feline eyes laughed up at him.
"Do I look like a damsel in distress to you?"
"Uh..." Trick question, some lucid part of his brain warned. "You look like my heaven," he rallied gamely.
"'Cause I'm such an angel?"
"Sure."
"Aw. Isn't that sweet?" A dimple flirted with her cherry-red lips. "Who taught you how to lie so prettily? That Injun half-breed?"
"Lynx doesn't like to be called -—"
"I'm more interested in what I like," she purred. "And what I like is naked cowboys."
Her husky taunt conjured an image of the Old Fart. Annoyance vied with Cass's lust.
"Anyone I know?" he demanded a tad more sharply than he'd intended.
Those tawny Tiger eyes danced. He had the aggravating suspicion that she knew precisely where his thoughts had strayed.
"Perhaps." She walked her fingers along his bicep, his chest, his belt—all the while, prowling around him in a slinky little circle, reminding him vividly of a jungle cat in heat. "Then again," she teased, her breaths hot and steamy, caressing his ear from behind, "you may have to refresh my memory."
Her teeth clamped over his earlobe, shooting goosebumps to his toes. She dragged herself closer with one arm, even as she reached around his waist with the other. Her goal was the buttons of his fly.
"So you did like my song," he taunted as she flattened the lush globes of her breasts—with their deliciously taut nubs—against his back.
"I like a lot of things you can do."
His grin turned lopsided. He caught her persistently tugging fingers. "That instrument only gets played at the river, sweetheart."
"I'm not going to the river," she insisted, and somehow, his gunbelt thudded to the floor.
"Is that a fact?" Lightning surged to his loins at her defiance. He arched a challenging eyebrow over his shoulder. "It's a good thing I latched the trigger guards."
"And still he's wearing pants. Have I been too subtle, cowboy?"
He broke her hold and spun to face her. "Two can play the spanking game," he growled.
But before he could make good on his threat, she ducked under his arm and jammed a heel into the back of his knee. Surprised, he oomphed, stumbling backwards. All predator, she pounced, using his momentum to bowl him into the papers on her bed.
"So help me God, woman—"
Her mouth fastened over his. The hunger in that kiss quickened his blood, making his head spin and his crotch bulge. Thoroughly distracted, he didn't realize his danger. The chill of metal grazed his left wrist. He heard the unmistakable click of manacles.
"Sonuva—"
Before he could finish his curse, she'd snared his right arm securely in the bed linens, making it impossible for him to retaliate.
She chuckled triumphantly.
"Now then, Ranger," she purred, straddling his hips and yanking with expert fingers at the straining buttons of his fly. "How did your rhyme go? 'With wiles that lure men to her game, she rides them like a hurricane...'
"Paybacks are a bitch," he countered, secretly exhilarated by her game.
"Yeah?" Her irises slitted. Tantalizing little breaths gusted over his sensitized pecker as she lowered her head and loosed a throaty laugh. "That's mighty big talk for a stallion who's about to be ridden hard and put up wet."
Feverishly, he arched beneath her amorous assault. She feasted like a wildcat, sucking, growling, nipping. He thought he would die and go to heaven by way of hell. Insatiable, she had him writhing, moaning and panting her name.
He never did get her to the riverbank that day.
But he did make double sure that she saw stars before the sun set.
Chapter 7
BETRAYED
As the weeks passed, Cass allowed himself to be wooed into a false sense of security. Sterne was out of sight and, apparently, out of Sadie's mind. With time on her hands, she'd been able to live her dream, writing bawdy songs and performing them to earth-quaking stomps and thunderous applause.
Whenever she turned all Dragon Lady on him, he'd take great delight in stealing her away from Calliope—whom he'd eventually learned was her Muse. He'd drag his volatile lover into the pantry, or tantalize her in the stairwell, or romp with her behind the locked door of Chalkey's hallowed back room. In fact, they'd spent a memora
ble afternoon "plowing" the Poker table's field of green one day, before they'd emerged hand-in-hand, smug and sated, the imprints of betting chips decorating their butts.
But rumbles of discontent had also plagued their time together. Chalkey required Sadie to help the beer-jerkers serve liquor and food. In the taproom, more than any other place, Cass began noticing little warning signs. He'd observed her naughty winks and sultry smiles as she thumped whiskey down before former lovers—like Luke. Or Wyatt. Or Bat.
He'd noticed how she would sashay around the taproom, eliciting wolf whistles from buffalo hunters, or lean low over a cowboy's shoulder, earning herself a shower of coins because she'd placed something—and it hadn't been a beefsteak—in the right spot.
Cass knew what he was seeing. He just didn't want to see it. The hotter he burned for Sadie, the less she seemed touched by his fire. Oh sure, she went through all the motions, kissing him like dynamite and stroking him like the Devil's Daughter. But the more he observed, the more he worried that Sadie was just "doing her job" in his bed—the way she'd been doing it every night with his new, Dodge City friends before he'd ridden into town.
Blowing out his breath at the thought, he paced the Long Branch's porch and lit a cigarette, taking a few drags to cool his hot head. He didn't want anything to spoil the romantic evening that he'd planned, especially the unveiling of Sadie's present. Through no fault of his own, he'd already been delayed at the public bathhouse, which had been running low on water.
Knowing that Sadie was scheduled to perform in less than 10 minutes, Cass finally tossed aside his half-smoked cig and pushed through the swinging doors. A cheer rose from the faro table when his new, gambling friends spied him. They raised their glasses in his direction, and his mood brightened a bit. He tipped his hat.
As he skirted the dance floor, an eyelash-batting bawd slinked past with a fistful of foaming mugs. Her other hand trailed wickedly over his thigh. With an apologetic grin, he slapped the brunette's derriere and sent her, squealing, on her way.
A dozen cowboys thumped his shoulders. He winced good-naturedly, working his way through the cigar haze until he could at last belly-up to the bar. Complete strangers, with Irish brogues, Texas twangs, and Virginia drawls, greeted him by name. He endured more shoulder thumps and more gropes from lusty, soiled doves before he graciously accepted the drink offers that his admirers were showering on him.
Yes, romping with Sadie wasn't the only thing that Cass was enjoying in Dodge. He liked his celebrity as the town's quick-draw darling. Most of his new friends were cattle barons and high rollers, who'd been only too delighted to throw their greenbacks his way—in the beginning.
But three weeks had passed, and rumors about his shooting skills had reached legendary proportions. He'd switched to knives, but that strategy hadn't prolonged the shower of cash for long. Even the most roostered of bettors hesitated to place wagers on him now. He'd had to resort to gambling, and that meant money was tight, especially tonight. Before visiting the bathhouse, Cass had impulsively spent a week's worth of Poker winnings to purchase the fancy new pendant that he'd spied in Rath's mercantile. The locket's flashing topaz had reminded Cass poignantly of Sadie's eyes.
I'll just have to beat Doc tonight, Cass told himself with his usual Coyote confidence.
He searched the taproom for Lynx. He wasn't surprised to spy the Cherokee standing apart from the crowd—which was no small feat, considering the crush of humanity. As usual, Lynx had carved a lair for himself in the shadows, this time, under the stairwell. His shoulders were pressed against the wall; his heel was tucked under his buttocks; his panther-lithe frame was cocooned in a ring of oregano smoke.
Cass shook his head.
Considering the risk, he often wondered why Lynx bothered to enter a White Man's saloon. Lynx rarely socialized. He didn't drink much. And he refused to join Cass in one of Chalkey's back room Poker games. Lynx couldn't forgive the cowtown's elite for banning him three weeks ago from their exclusively White circle.
But not everyone was anti-Injun. Doc, for one, didn't care what color Lynx's skin was, as long as Lynx showed up with cash. Neither did the liquor merchant, Hoover, whose tolerance had grown by leaps and bounds after Cass had "volunteered" Lynx to ride shotgun with him on a whiskey run to Caldwell.
But Lynx was a bit of a snob in reverse. He'd claimed that Cass's card-sharping friends were all vipers and couldn't be trusted. Partly out of revenge, and partly to prove himself the equal of any White man, he'd set his sights on Chalkey's big-busted blonde.
Liliana. Cass shook his head, watching as the bawd pranced across the stage, blowing kisses to her admirers. Now she was a piece of work. If there was one person in Dodge whom Lynx shouldn't be trusting, it was giggly, wiggly Sawdust for Brains. A loose-lipped whore was the worst kind of bedfellow for a man whose skin was the wrong color.
But Lynx was ornery that way. He kept chasing after the girls who were liable to get him lynched.
Cass tossed back his shot. Liliana's performance was drawing to a close. The Long Branch's proprietor, who was conducting the six-piece band of brass and strings, made a sweeping gesture with his hands. The musicians lowered their instruments.
Liliana curtseyed to thunderous applause. She blew more kisses to her admirers—including Lynx—before she finally skipped off stage.
Lynx's lips quirked appreciatively.
Cass rolled his eyes.
Finally, Chalkey finished swilling his beer. The saloon owner wiped a sleeve across his mouth and raised his hands to command the attention of his band. The fiddlers repositioned their instruments. After some lively bow-sawing, burley bouncers pulled hemp ropes to part the stage's black curtains.
And there Sadie stood, sizzling like a brand. A pool of ruddy lamplight illuminated her velvet flesh, and her lips curved in that flirty little smirk that never failed to make Cass hard.
A hush descended over the taproom. Even the craps shooters stopped hollering "Snake-eyes!" long enough to crane their shaggy heads over their shoulders and gawk at the sex goddess on the stage.
Her russet curls were piled high on her head, accentuating the swan-like column of her neck. Her freckled breasts were artfully powdered and rigged. They all but popped from her scandalously cut bodice. Her luscious curves were sheathed in shimmering, royal-blue satin that hugged her flesh like a second skin. Her skirt flared like a frothy fishtail at her knees, allowing her to move toward the footlights in a slow, sultry prowl.
Cass grinned a little stupidly as she halted above him, her breasts swelling even bigger. She was sucking down air to belt out the first stanza of her song:
"At first she was a proper lass,
With violet eyes like pansies.
She ne'er would let her lips be touched
Much less her starched white panties..."
Delighted whoops and roars shook the floorboards. Buffalo hunters, railroaders, wolfers, and cowboys started stomping their feet, anticipating the ballad of shy little Pansy Primrose, the preacher's daughter. Thanks to Sadie's quick wit—and her gift for improvisation—each of these manly factions would eventually play a role in Pansy's spectacular fall from grace.
"Yes, purdy little Pansy,
Now that she's full grown,
Will jump a randy gambler
Like a dog jumps on a bone..."
Already three sheets to the wind, Doc Rebel-yelled at the top of his lungs. Luke wasn't quite as effusive as his Georgian rival, but the dapper cardsharp betrayed his own inebriation when he bowed, listing sideways.
Cass's lips curved. He liked Doc. He even liked Luke. What he didn't like was that he couldn't train his eyes anywhere in that saloon without spying a man who had carnal knowledge of Sadie. His Sadie.
Jealousy pricked his heart.
"You're headed for heartbreak, pal," Lynx's earlier warning re-echoed in Cass's ears. "Get your fill, and get out of her bed."
"You don't have to remind me she's a dove—"
"That's
not what I mean," Lynx had said grimly. "I saw her sneaking out of the brothel. After you fell asleep. She was trying to hook up with Sterne."
His mind jerking back to the present, Cass tensed. For some reason, goosebumps were tiptoeing over his scalp. He didn't have a Muse, but he had a gunfighter's instincts, and right now, they were clanging like a fire bell. What was the warning about?
Warily, he lowered his right hand to his six-shooter. He cast narrowed eyes over the room.
Meanwhile, Sadie belted out in her lusty alto:
"Then came a Texas cowboy,
A downright orn'ry guy.
Bulgin' at the chaps, he was,
With notches on his fly.
Been poking lil' dogies,
For 60 nights or more.
Panz had no need to ask him, boys,
What Cass had come here for!"
The crowd roared at her public lampoon. Cass's drinking buddies thumped him merrily on the shoulders, distracting him. Cass grinned gamely, but inside, he felt... Annoyed? Irritated? He couldn't quite put his finger on the emotion.
Then Lynx caught his eye. The Cherokee jerked his head toward the far side of the taproom.
A dark-haired long-rider with a wolfish face and a low-riding holster stood unobtrusively near the swinging doors. He'd propped his shoulder against the wall. He was puffing on a smoke.
Whether Sadie saw the man wasn't clear. She'd turned her back on the saloon's entrance. She was wiggling her derriere in a particularly loins-stirring way toward that side of the room.
Rexford Sterne never took his eyes off her.
Cass recognized the emotion then, because it hit him like a fist in the gut.
He felt betrayed.
Chapter 8
BROKEN WINGS
No one was more annoyed than Sadie to learn that Rexford Sterne had returned to the Long Branch to feast his eyes on her derriere.
But trying to convince Cass of her feelings had been a losing battle. He'd stormed into her dressing room—actually, the chorus line's dressing room—in the middle of her costume change. By that time, she'd managed to throw on a new gown, but she was still trying to locate her eye paint in the colorful mess that Liliana and her tromping troupe of blondes had left behind in their mad rush to perform the Can-Can.
Pistols and Petticoats (A Historical Western Romance Anthology) Page 14
