Don't flatter yourself, Rutter.
Suddenly, Sadie noticed a suspicious rocking in the trunks behind Lilybelle's head. She glanced lower, seeking the source of the movement. A furry felon was squeezing beneath the cart.
Vandy!
Sadie shot a murderous glance at Collie, who'd slapped a hand over his mouth to smother snickers. If she knew anything about that raccoon—and unfortunately, she did—Vandy had been stalking Lilybelle's donuts for some time.
"Is something amiss?" Dante asked politely.
"Yeah, Lady Coyote," Lilybelle chimed in. "You got your face screwed up like an opossum sucking persimmons."
Sadie forced a smile at this assessment. "Forgive me." As nonchalantly as possible, she stepped between Vandy and the fruit preserves on the dowager's toe. "Dante, what time do you have? Perhaps we can still make a reservation for lunch."
But petticoats weren't much of a barrier against a willful raccoon. Dante had no sooner tugged out his timepiece, than Vandy charged between her legs. He exploded like a rocket from under her hemline, knocking her off balance. She stumbled, slamming into Dante's arm.
He dropped the watch.
The flash of tumbling gold caught Vandy's attention. Showing his true colors, the furry felon swerved, snatched the prize in mid-air, and fled for the 18th Street entrance. He left a trail of strawberry paw prints in his wake.
"What the—?" Dante turned florid as Vandy's tail vanished into the drizzle.
"Tahoma!" Lilybelle cried.
"Um... I think that was a raccoon," Wyntir advised gently.
"Well, of course it was a raccoon!" the dowager snapped. "I was summoning Tahoma to catch the thief!"
"Did I hear something about catching a thief?" drawled a lazy Texas baritone, one which sounded far too smug for Sadie's peace of mind.
She shot Cass a "get lost" glare, but he didn't take the hint. Instead, he halted congenially by her side, tipped his hat to Lilybelle, and lavished his most dazzling smile on Wyntir.
"Trouble, folks?"
Wyntir giggled like a giddy child. She actually fanned her cheeks with a glove.
But Dante wasn't half as impressed by Cass's charm. The Bostonian raked narrow eyes over the Texican's immaculately brushed hat, past his half-grown beard and shoulder-length hair, all the way down the modest wool of his duster, to his gleaming Mexican-style spurs. A fleeting disdain registered on Dante's features.
"It appears vermin got into the hotel," he said, leaving no doubt he was referring to Cass.
The gunslinger bristled.
But Cass hadn't been dubbed "Coyote" because his wit was dull.
"Then it's a good thing I'm a kind of exterminator, eh, Doc?"
Wyntir fluttered admiring lashes at Cass's sun-baked face. "Do you work for the lieutenant governor, sir?"
"The name's Cassidy, Miss. William Cassidy." He flashed roguish dimples. "And regrettably, no. I'm just passing through town. Although I must say, the more I see of your fine city, the more I'm tempted to stay. Denver has some of the fairest young ladies this side of the Mississippi."
He winked.
Wyntir turned a pretty shade of rose.
Sadie ground her teeth. She caught a glimpse of Mace, shaking his head at her. She prayed she could find some way to prove that Cass hadn't blown her cover—again. If Mace filed another report, citing her for negligence, she would get drummed out of the agency!
"That... that beast stole Dr. Goddard's timepiece," she cried in her best offended, Italian accent. "Be on your way, Exterminator, and fetch the timepiece back."
Cass turned his insufferable grin on her. "Aw, the little rascal was just having fun, ma'am. Raccoons are mischief-makers at heart. They don't do a body harm—unless you try to cross one."
She suspected he was referring to himself, not Vandy, and that his veiled threat was intended for Dante.
But the Bostonian didn't take the hint.
"When a nocturnal beast prowls during the day, it is typically rabid," Dante chided, implying that Cass didn't know squat about extermination.
Cass hiked an eyebrow at his detractor. "I reckon it's not common for a refined, Yankee gentleman to know so much about night-prowling. Have we met before, Doc? At Mattie's place?"
"Who's Mattie?" Wyntir asked with all the innocence of her 20 sheltered years.
"She's a whore, dear," Lilybelle supplied helpfully.
Wyntir's hand flew to her mouth.
A muscle ticked in Dante's jaw.
Sadie figured she'd better look shocked too, considering her alias. "Vulgar man, be gone! You are unfit for polite company!"
"Aw, don't be such a fuddy-duddy," Lilybelle said, fetching another donut from her tin. "Boys will be boys. You need to get out of the palace more often, Lady Coyote. William, dear," she cooed to Cass. "I need a strapping young man to carry my carpetbag. Would you tote it to the assembly room for the next show?"
"I'd consider it an honor, ma'am."
Lilybelle tossed a smirk at Sadie, as if to say, 'And that's how it's done, Toots.'
Sadie wanted to smack her.
Meanwhile, Wyntir had digested the "whore" news. Her heart-shaped face was as pale as the pearls at her throat. "Dante," she whispered, "is it true what Mr. Cassidy said about... about Mattie?"
Dante smiled down at his impressionable young ward. The warmth in his gaze caused two spots of color to bloom in her cheeks. "You mustn't trouble yourself, my dear. Mr. Cassidy and I have never met."
"Sure, Doc. Whatever you say." Cass winked. "A man's got to have his secret pleasures, after all. Wouldn't want a sweet, young heiress to think less of you in the suitor department."
Dante's smoldering glare locked with Cass's. A primal challenge, as palpable as a lightning strike, sizzled between the two men. Even Wyntir must have been aware of the static. She rubbed her arms, as if warding off goosebumps.
Dante noticed. "Are you chilled, my dear?"
"I-I feel a draft."
"Some foolish doorman must have left his post," Sadie improvised hastily, "and let the raccoon sneak inside the hotel."
"Or perhaps," Dante countered, draping his coat around Wyntir's shoulders, "the creature was a pet. I noticed a leather collar."
So the psychiatrist notices details, does he?
"Dante, wasn't that your grandfather's pocket watch?" Wyntir gazed anxiously into her guardian's veiled eyes. "The one that plays the waltz? I know how much it means to you. Perhaps we should notify the desk clerk."
"And offer a reward," Cass suggested. "Lost items have a tendency to turn up when a bounty's offered."
Dante's lip curled faintly. "I daresay you know a lot about bounties, Mr. Cassidy."
"No more than most. But I do know a fraud when I see one, Doc."
Sadie held her breath.
But Dante surprised her. He didn't escalate the verbal brawl, as Cass would have done. Maybe he suspected the younger man was a gunfighter. Maybe he considered himself too well-bred to trade insults with a rabble-rouser.
In any event, he dismissed Cass with a thin smile. "Ladies," he said mildly, "I believe we were discussing lunch. Fiore, would you do Wyntir and me the honor of presiding at our table?"
"How kind you are, dottore! I would be delighted."
With old-world chivalry, Dante extended an elbow. Cass stiffened when she took it. If the psychiatrist had been acting on a hunch that she and Cass were acquainted, Cass had just proven him right. Sadie needed to cast doubt on that hunch to protect her cover.
Fortunately, the way she was feeling about Cass, snubbing him didn't require much effort.
"It is always a pleasure, carino—" her smile dripped honey for Dante "—to dine with an educated man of refined tastes."
Turning her shoulder with glacial dignity, she left her ex-lover choking on her dust.
Cass dragged a restraining breath into his lungs.
"You're a hot-blooded one," Lilybelle said, arching an eyebrow at his hips.
That's when he rea
lized he was flexing his hands over the holsters he no longer wore.
Cass forced himself to smile at her observation. "Shucks, ma'am. I've been trying to reform."
But he couldn't take his eyes off his woman. Not when she was walking away on the arm of another man.
Lilybelle shook her head. "A high-stepper like that can't see past the nose she's waving in the air. But if you want my advice, sonny, get a haircut."
Cass loosed a long, winding breath. Jealousy was like a spike, jabbing at his spleen. He wanted to know who had given Sadie the Imperial topaz to replace his gold chain.
But what really bothered him was the notion that Maestro might think that fancy rock was worth killing for.
Chapter 6
Beans had left a foul taste in Cass's mouth, a taste that could only be washed down with whiskey.
Lots of whiskey.
But the next morning, Cass learned he had bigger problems. His special, Deputy U.S. Marshal's commission had been denied.
Rexford Sterne, Adjutant-General of the Texas Rangers and a part-time Marshal himself, had signed the paperwork, so Cass didn't understand the problem. Neither did Sterne. According to the Ranger's latest telegram, some anonymous pain-in-the-ass had challenged the application because of Cass's criminal past.
Sterne had advised, "Sit tight, and let me deal with it."
Right. And let my woman get killed?
So Cass had spent the better part of the day laying his trap to smoke out Maestro. Riding to the Gentleman's Sporting Club, he got friendly with the stable boys, who confirmed his suspicion that a dappled-gray mustang with a fancy, silver-studded halter, was none other than Ghost Dancer. The champion runner belonged to Cass's old compadre, Boone Wylie. The freighting baron's reputation for feats of daring had made him a legend in La Plata County, where he'd spent four years hauling ore smelters through the treacherous, snaking passes of the San Juan Mountains. Ironically, his real fortune had come from a poker wager 18 months ago.
Now Boone lived the good life in Denver, apparently, because to become a member of the Sporting Club, a man had to possess money or pedigree. Cass possessed neither, but he did manage to talk his way inside, out of the cold, while some snot-nosed attendant searched for Boone and passed him Cass's hastily sketched calling card: a bull's eye sprouting a devil's horns and tail.
Eventually, as Cass cooled his heels in the entry hall, he heard a floorboard creak above him.
"Lord thunderin' Jaysus, it is you, Billy!"
Cass grinned up at the rangy muleskinner, who was leaning over the gallery railing. Boone cleaned up pretty well for a cussing, tobacco-spitting, 38-year-old rascal. His rusty-brown, shoulder-length curls had been sheared to his ears and heavily waxed to hold a center part. He'd traded his duster for a shooting jacket and his dungarees for gaiters, but he'd refused to part with his bullwhip, Cass noted in secret amusement.
"I hear that barren patch of rock you won with your diamond flush was hiding a vein of gold," Cass called. "You sure were born under a lucky star, Boone."
"Me? Hell, you have more lives than a tabby. Last time you and Lynx rode shotgun on the Silverton run, I found you dangling from a bullwhip over a 4,000-foot gorge. I still can't believe you caught that payroll before the buckboard fell over the mountain."
"To tell the truth, I was grabbing for your whiskey cask. And missed."
Boone hooted. "That tale gets taller with every tellin', don't it? C'mon upstairs, Billy. I got a bottle of Scotch that needs a friend."
Cass followed the transplanted Texican into a rustic, raftered lodge with a menagerie of animal trophies, ranging from elk to bear. On the western wall, a picture window looked over the wooded grounds, which featured a shooting range and race track. Against the eastern wall, a fancy sideboard was loaded with wild game, including elk steak and a pot of squirrel stew. The room was moderately populated with gents, who were eating a late lunch or reading the newspaper in antler-framed chairs.
"You caught me with a quarter hour to kill," Boone confided, waving Cass toward a seat beside a granite fireplace, which looked large enough to roast a bison. "I'm not scheduled for the barber till half-past two."
"So that's what happened to those braided whiskers you grew clear to your belt. Seems a shame you lost them."
Boone winked, pouring Cass a dram of single-malt. "Lost a beard, gained a wife. I hear Lynx got hitched, too. Never thought I'd see the day when you and he would finally part ways. Sera must be one helluva woman."
Cass smiled wistfully, recalling the spirited preacher's daughter, who'd saved his life. Then she'd risked the anger of her kin and the contempt of the small-minded folks in her Appalachian town to elope with a Cherokee halfbreed.
"You think I'd let Lynx marry some shrew?" Cass rallied.
Boone chuckled, sitting back in his chair. "So you approve."
Cass averted his eyes. "Sure." He tossed back his dram. In truth, he missed Lynx and Sera more than he missed his own kin.
Setting his shot glass on the table, Cass glanced out the window and noticed a familiar figure in a Chesterfield overcoat. Goddard was walking along the snow-shoveled path to the stables. Along the way, he exchanged words with a pudgy, huffing fellow in an Inverness cape.
Cass watched speculatively. "Who's that tenderfoot outside, talking with Goddard?"
Boone glanced toward the window and grunted. "Wortham Welbourn. Sole heir to the Welbourn banking fortune. His older brother, Sterling, died about 25 years ago of pneumonia. According to the fogeys, it was quite the scandal: Sterling's wife wasted little time re-marrying her husband's kid-brother—Wortham."
"You don't say?" Cass hid his amusement. He'd figured Boone could dish the dirt on Goddard's pal. Boone lived to gossip.
"Yep," Boone said eagerly, his eyes twinkling as he spun the old tale for fresh ears. "But the joke was on the gold-digging wife. Wortham's mother still holds the purse strings. At 91-years-old, Lilybelle shows no sign of kicking the bucket. Sheridan, her daughter-in-law, got tired of living on an allowance, so she's trying to convince Wortham to send his mother to the Funny Farm."
Apparently, Lilybelle wasn't exaggerating when she'd claimed 'Harridan' wanted her committed.
"And Goddard?" Cass jerked his thumb toward the window. "What do you know about him?"
Boone shrugged. "Not much. Edmund Greyfell introduced him for club membership about six weeks ago, before tragedy struck. Greyfell shot himself, poor bastard. Didn't leave a suicide note, but the police ruled out foul play. Goddard was appointed guardian of Greyfell's heir, until she reaches her majority."
"So if Wyntir doesn't marry him, Goddard's out the door without a dime."
"That's about the size of it," Boone said. "Why? You thinking of marrying Wyntir yourself?"
Cass grinned. "Oh... you know me."
"Better than you think, Rutter!"
They shared a laugh over another dram of Scotch.
"I hear the museum got fed up with the railroad wars," Cass said casually. "I heard they gave you the freighting contract for the Namdaran exhibit."
Boone's humor ebbed. "That haul has been nothing but a damned nightmare. I had to pay 20 armed men for babysitting a life-sized baby elephant, cast from solid gold, not to mention a Maharajah's jewel-encrusted sarcophagus and a treasure chest of relics from some temple. We freighted the Namdaran load all the way from Leadville. But since Renfield's death, the Museum Board has been sitting on my money. Maestro's escapades are costing me thousands. Insurance rates are going through the roof."
"You're not worried about Daredevil?"
"Who?"
Cass's ego deflated a notch when Boone blinked blankly at his question.
"I read in the Rocky," Cass said, "that some fella named Daredevil broke into the Windsor two nights ago and robbed an Italian contessa of her jewels. The heist was valued at $300 grand. The next morning, Daredevil challenged Maestro in the advertisement section. He wrote, 'Now who's Denver's Prince of Thieves? Long live the Devil.
'"
Boone grunted, tugging a stogie from his pocket. "Daredevil sounds like a craphead."
Cass shot his friend a withering glare. "You've got the vision of a one-eyed mole. I thought you owned a stake in the Rocky."
"Worst investment I ever made," Boone grumbled, rummaging through his pockets. "Aw, hell."
"What's the matter?"
"Lost my match safe. A damned nice one, too: 24-karat gold. It played my favorite tune, She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain."
Cass shook his head and struck one of his own matches with a thumb. "You never could keep anything that wasn't tied down."
"Except the admiration of women," Boone quipped, lowering his head to puff his cigar to life.
Cass chuckled, extinguishing the flame. "So about this Daredevil."
"What about him?" Boone drawled, blowing a stream of smoke.
"Seems like he could help you fix your troubles with the Rocky. A fella like Daredevil could sell more newspapers than the gold strike in Durango."
"Why do I sense a Coyote Con coming on?" Boone said dryly.
"'Cause you got more horse sense than the average muleskinner." Leaning across the table, Cass lowered his voice. "Say you leaked a story to some wet-behind-the-ears reporter. Say Daredevil paid you a visit and got away with stealing—oh, I don't know. Something that would make the Namdaran Emeralds look like penny candy. You got any diamonds?"
"Maybe," Boone hedged. "What for?"
"So I can pretend to steal them."
"Pretend to steal them?"
"That's right. Every time Daredevil pretends to steal jewels, the Rocky will get first crack at the story. You'll also get an exclusive advertisement for the Classifieds, taunting Maestro to steal something bigger. Folks'll be so eager to see Maestro one-up Daredevil, papers will fly off the newsstands. When Maestro finally does take the bait, the police will be waiting to arrest his ass, and your insurance rates will go down. See that? Everybody wins."
Boone gaped, his forgotten stogie smoking between his fingers. "Have you lost your cotton-picking mind?!"
Cass glanced furtively around the room. When he was satisfied no one was watching, he flashed the Ranger badge pinned to the lining of his duster.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 7
