By the time Cass drew close enough to sneak up on the detective, Sledgehammer was tugging a stogie from his coat pocket.
Cass let the hiss of a striking match announce his arrival.
Sledgehammer didn't look surprised to see his rival materialize beside him, which annoyed Cass. In truth, a lot about the detective annoyed Cass, not the least of which was Sledgehammer's failure to protect the women under his command.
"Thought you'd want to know," Cass said acidly, cupping the flame so Sledgehammer could light his cigar. "Pryce survived his drive to Holladay Street. Barely."
Sledgehammer's expression never changed as he puffed, focusing on the tip of his smoke. "Is that name supposed to mean something to me?"
Cass reined in his temper. He didn't know what response he'd expected from the detective, but at the very least, Sledgehammer should have inquired after Sadie's well-being.
"Maybe you know this Pryce by another name. Like Lickspittle. Or Screw Up," Cass added, lighting a pre-rolled quirley for himself. "In any event, he got the tar beat out of him in Mattie's alley. Which served him right. He let the woman he was protecting fight off three bushwhackers with a button and a cane."
Sledgehammer exhaled a stream of smoke. "Sounds like a helluva woman."
"And you're a sorry bastard."
"Funny. She said the same thing about you. The morning after you robbed her."
Cass's eyes narrowed. Somehow, he couldn't picture Sadie confessing to the man who had the power to send her back to the whorehouse that she'd been duped by her outlaw lover.
"Your boss must pay screw-ups good wages," Cass countered, referring to the Galveston brothel that had burned to the ground last summer. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be able to afford an Imperial topaz for my woman."
Sledgehammer didn't bat an eye. "Is that why Daredevil was born?"
"Is that name supposed to mean something to me?" Cass fired back.
The ghost of a smile touched Sledgehammer's lips. "You mustn't read the newspaper much—contrary to the claims made by a certain dame."
"Who has time to read? I want to trap a coyote, not cogitate about it. Speaking of which, I don't appreciate your choice of bait in this hunt."
Sledgehammer raised his shoulders in an indolent shrug. "The bait, if you haven't noticed, keeps insisting on the role, much to my aggravation."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means, if I had my way, she'd be safe and sound in Texas."
Cass digested this news. He wasn't sure he believed it. Sledgehammer had already lied to him once tonight.
But Cass knew the value of alliances, even the uneasy ones. Eleven years ago, when he'd stumbled across a Cherokee half-breed, who'd needed saving from the Ku Klux Klan, he'd forged a lifelong bond with that stranger. Lynx had eventually become his most trustworthy friend.
"Sounds like we have something in common," Cass said grudgingly.
"We're both bastards?"
"That makes two things in common."
Sledgehammer's lips twitched. "I saw you talking to the Greek."
"He bakes damned good pies."
"Uh-huh."
"You got a problem with pies?" Cass demanded.
"Only when they're baked with rocks."
Cass was careful to keep his Poker face. Porfi was rumored to bake loot into his confections so he could smuggle jewels out of his shop. "You're barking up the wrong tree if that's where you're looking for a certain silver magnate's missing rock."
"And you know this because...?"
"Me and Porfi go back a long way."
"And of course, Porfi never lies to his friends," Sledgehammer said dryly.
"Maybe if you had a few friends of your own, in the right places, you wouldn't be so quick to judge."
"And what places might those be?"
"Places that welcome coyotes, but not the fellas who hunt them."
Sledgehammer tapped ash. His eyes were fixed on Porfi; his expression remained as placid as a pond on a windless day. Still, Cass sensed the detective was considering the proposal.
"Seems like the right coyote could be useful," Sledgehammer conceded. "If he has a knack for digging. And the smarts not to get caught."
Cass snorted. He'd assumed Sledgehammer was familiar with his legend. Since going on the run at the tender age of 13, Cass had been brought to trial only once, and that was because he'd surrendered to clear his name. Last summer in Texas, the courts had exonerated him for killing Cousin Bobby's murderer in self-defense.
Dropping his smoke, Cass rubbed it out with his toe. "I'll be in touch, pard."
Mace continued to puff his cigar as he watched Sadie's outlaw lover stroll toward the exit with his usual, cocksure gait. Cassidy had arrived on a whiff of sandalwood. Now, thanks to the steady breeze blowing through the windows, the fragrance of lemongrass soap warned Mace another male was approaching.
"Damn," whispered the mousy-haired youth with the wire-rimmed spectacles. "Who was that?"
"Picture the same mug without the beard."
The junior agent sucked in his breath. "Lucifire?"
Mace frowned at the admiration in the youth's tone. He happened to know Sadie had written the Ballad of Lucifire long before Cassidy had set foot in East Texas for the first time in 11 years. Cassidy had adopted the name to fuel his legend. He fancied himself a "devil with a gun."
And sure, Cassidy was a showboating quickdraw; Mace would give him that. Cassidy was also a crass southern cracker, a notorious debaucher, and an unrepentant felon, whose thieving record stretched longer than Mace's arm.
"But the warrants say he wears a double-holstered rig," the junior agent protested. "And he always carries two guns!"
Mace's smile was mirthless. The young Pinkerton—better known as Ambrosius "Brodie" Darling—had spent all of three months in Denver. He'd left his home to save the world because, apparently, Bloomington, Indiana, didn't need saving.
"A man doesn't need a hip holster to carry a gun," Mace reminded his trainee.
"Right." Furrows creased Brodie's high, sensitive brow. "So what's the plan?"
"We'll wait. See what he turns up."
"Then he is on our side," the First-Year concluded eagerly.
Mace snorted.
Brodie's scrupulously shaved face turned crimson. "I just thought, maybe, since he offered to help us out, you'd want to retract your complaint," he whispered uneasily. "You know. About that special commission."
"Hell no." Mace's lip curled as he tossed aside his stogie. Brodie had read too many penny dreadfuls, touting the courage, honor, and invincibility of Rangers. "This isn't Texas. And I'm not a fool, like Rexford Sterne."
* * *
Sadie lay muttering in her bed, plagued by a recurring dream with a frightening new twist.
"Sing the fairy song, Sadie!" Maisy called, blowing dandelion seeds on the wind.
Mama had told them to hike to the riverbank, a half-mile from their east Texas home. She'd given Maisy and Sadie strict orders not to return until their wicker basket was full of blackberries. At the rate they were going, that would be midnight. Maisy, the perennial dreamer, was hunting for daisies to fashion a circlet for her flame-red head, and Sadie was shoving one berry in her mouth for every two she picked.
She set down the basket in a shady patch of grasses, beneath a grand old cypress tree. Hiking her stained pinafore, she curtsied before her older twin and belted out a spring song. Maisy joined in the second verse, which was her favorite part:
"The fairies spread their sil'vry wings
To shower love on earthly things,
The dewy grass, the fragrant flowers
Bloom with beauty from fey powers..."
Laughing, Maisy twirled around, losing a blizzard of dandelion seeds. An errant gust of wind snatched the bonnet off her head. Giving chase, the innocent fluttered her arms like make-believe wings.
That's when Sadie noticed the stranger.
Ageless and timeless, with a pale face
that somehow resisted the heat, the man stood on the riverbank, silhouetted against the sun. Despite the mid-day hour, he'd dressed in immaculate evening attire, from his gleaming silk top hat to his dove gray gloves and polished opera pumps. He wasn't overtly threatening as he leaned upon his walking stick, but Sadie sensed something about him wasn't right. For one thing, the wind didn't riffle his long swallowtails or slicked back hair. For another, his eyes were black. All black.
Laughing and leaping, Maisy was too busy pretending to be a fairy in flight to notice the silent sentinel with the creepy eyes. When her bonnet tumbled past his shoes, the stranger didn't lift a finger to fetch it. Nor did he call a warning about the rushing river, like other adults would have done.
"Let the bonnet go," Sadie called uneasily. "You can wear mine!"
"But Mama will be angry," Maisy said, swooping for the fluttering muslin.
That's when the unthinkable happened. Maisy slid in the mud and rolled down the bank. The sound of her splash was like an alpine blast to Sadie's soul.
Desperately, she hiked her skirts and ran after her sister. But the horrible, black-eyed man raised his palm. A cypress root snaked out of the ground, snagging Sadie's ankle. She struggled against the evil cypress tree as the relentless current swept Maisy further and further away in a bubbling froth of green dye. Sadie screamed and screamed Maisy's name until she grew too hoarse to squeak. But Maisy's precious, red head never surfaced again.
Sobbing, Sadie turned helplessly to the man, who could only have been the Angel of Death. In his arms, he held a freckled, curly-haired child—a child wearing a circlet of daisies and shining angel wings. Smiling her ethereal smile, Maisy blew Sadie a kiss with a dimpled hand.
"Maisy, don't leave me!"
"I'll always watch over you, sister."
Suddenly, the sky grew dark, and the wind began to keen. Maisy disappeared with the stranger. In their place appeared another muslin bonnet, burning black eyes, and an enormous, wooden cross.
"Beware the devil's tune," Rebekah intoned in a voice like crashing thunder. "Or marked for death you will be..."
Sadie gasped and jerked awake. Daylight was edging across her pillow. She sucked down great gulps of air, trying to sooth the erratic speeding of her heart. Her limbs were shaking. Her skin was clammy.
Thank God. It was only a dream.
Turning her head to check the clock, she came face to face with black eyes and a furry snout. She nearly shrieked.
"Son of a—"
Vandy whuffed affectionately and snuggled against her breasts.
Sadie scowled. The coon had been sleeping on his side, his head resting on her pillow. Tucked under his jaw was his right hind leg, which had been bandaged in what looked suspiciously like a piece of her other pillowcase.
"Who let you in?"
Vandy's tail flopped possessively over her bare arm. He yawned, revealing formidable fangs. The stench of carrion wafted over her face.
"Is that a flea on my quilt? So help me God, that had better not be a flea!"
Vandy licked her nose.
I'm going to kill that kid.
A jaunty rap rattled her door. "Room service!"
Sadie's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Throwing back the quilt, she rolled off the other side of the bed, grabbed her .32 from the nightstand, and snatched a black satin robe from the post.
"I didn't order room service!"
"Compliments of the fine gentleman," insisted that muffled, male voice from the hall.
Fine gentleman? Sadie's heart quickened. Did he mean Dante?
Hastily tying her belt, she padded on bare feet to the door. When she cracked it open, she spied a mahogany-skinned bellhop in blue hotel livery. He was accompanied by a linen-draped cart with a silver-domed serving dish. He looked legitimate. Slipping her pistol into a pocket, but keeping her thumb on the hammer, she pulled the door wider.
That's when she spied Lucifire, leaning against the wall in his trademark Stetson, black shirt and chaps.
"Mornin', Sunshine," he drawled.
The bellhop had already wheeled the cart's front wheels across the threshold; otherwise, she would have slammed the door in Cass's face.
"I'll take it from here," he told the kid with a wink.
The bellhop grinned and caught Cass's coin before retreating for the elevator.
Sadie seethed, and not just because her ex-lover had hoodwinked her again. At 6:45 a.m., after a restless night, her hair resembled an exploded mop, and the rings beneath her eyes made her look like Vandy's next-of-kin.
By comparison, Cass's wind-riffled ruggedness lent him a mouth-watering, outdoorsy appeal that made her private parts twitch. His eyes were as stunning as polished sapphires set in a face that the sun had baked to honey-colored amber. His grin was a slash of pure mischief in his closely cropped beard. She wanted to smack him for his disgusting cheerfulness.
"I should have told the bellhop you smuggled a fleabag into the penthouse," she grumbled.
He pushed the cart into the room. "Is that any way to talk about a hero?"
Vandy had been busily scratching his ear beneath the quilt. Now he popped his head out from his goose-down igloo and licked his chops.
"I brought all your breakfast favorites," Cass said.
"If you think a plate of gingerbread can excuse you for—"
"I wasn't talking to you," he interrupted loftily. He raised the platter's sterling dome to reveal a smelly, dead trout, an apple wedge smeared with peanut butter, a saucer heaped with pumpkin guts, and a pile of shelled pecans. At the center of the tray was a crystal bowl brimming with water. "A feast fit for a king!"
Vandy wriggled enthusiastically and barked.
Sadie wrinkled her nose. She wondered if it was too late to shout for the bellhop to remove the stinking travesty—and Cass along with it.
"All right," she bit out. "You've had your fun. Now get out."
"What, no chit-chat? No foreplay?"
"I have a gun. Don't make me use it."
He chuckled, lowering the platter to the carpet. Vandy hopped off the bed—favoring his leg—and promptly made a mess of things, tracking peanut butter and pumpkin guts across the pile.
"Aw. Look how tidy the little tyke is," Cass crooned without a hint of irony. "He's washing his paws."
"That's not all that needs washing," Sadie groused. "Collie had better clean this slop up. That kid has a lot of nerve, picking my lock in the middle of the night and stealing my pillowcase for a bandage."
"Now Sadie, the boy only has two shirts. And you have four pillowcases."
"That's not the point!"
"Yeah? Then what is the point, detective? That a beardless pup sneaked inside your bedroom while you were sleeping? And if he can do it, Maestro can?"
Humiliation burned its way up Sadie's neck. As loath as she was to admit it, Cass's argument was sound. A bad dream was no excuse for letting down her guard. However, she wasn't about to concede her failing. An army of inquisitors couldn't make her give Cass that pleasure!
"Oh, I get it," she said snidely. "I'm supposed to fear Maestro will murder me in my sleep. Well, your plan isn't working, Rutter. You've used up all your free sex tokens for my bed."
"Aw, don't be that way. We're on the same team now. I talked with your field boss."
"You did what?!"
"I convinced him how much he needs me. Contessas can't snoop around the Underground, after all."
Sadie quailed to think of Cass exposing himself to a bloodhound like Mace. There was a saying in the Agency. 'Don't piss off Mace Ryker. He's got a long memory and an even longer arm.'
"My God, do you have a death wish? After you slandered him all over Galveston, word got back to Chicago. He was called to headquarters for a drubbing. Sledgehammer doesn't forgive—"
"You mean Mace?"
Sadie blinked, momentarily derailed from her tirade. Dammit! Did I just blow Mace's cover?
Cass smiled cherubically. "Rangers know how to investigate wi
th telegrams too, sweets."
"Don't call me that!"
"Sorry, sugar."
Sadie's chest heaved. This was bad. This was really bad...
"If this mission goes south because of something Mace can pin on you—"
Cass snorted. "No tin-star has ever pinned anything on me."
"That's because you never tangled with Pinkertons! You have no idea what you're up against. God help you if you squeal, because if harm should come to Mace—"
"Whoa. Slow down. You think Mace is your friend? I got news for you, sweetheart. Mace sold you out. He tried to make me believe you fingered me as Daredevil. Then he went and admitted he wants you out of the agency."
Sadie ground her teeth. She didn't doubt the last part of Cass's story. Mace had never minced words in his reports about her "unsuitability" for field work. As proof that she couldn't keep a cover, he'd blamed her for the fire that had razed the Satin Siren, during their investigation of a corrupt Texas senator.
"If Mace had his way, all Pinkies would have their badges revoked," she said grimly. "He thinks women are liabilities in the field."
"And Minx proved him right."
"Don't you dare presume that! Especially about me!"
Cass raised his palms in conciliation. "All right, Tiger. Sheath your claws. Let's take a deep breath and start over. This conversation clearly got off on the wrong foot."
Stooping, he rummaged under the cart's linen drape. Clattering and clanging ensued. A few moments later, he finally emerged with another covered plate.
"Do you know how hard it is to find blueberries in this town?"
"It's snowing," she said uncharitably. "What did you expect?"
"Well, you can't have blueberry pie without blueberries. I think there's a law about that somewhere. Even in Colorado." With a grin, he swept off the plate's sterling dome. "Tah-dah!"
She looked suspiciously at a tin heaped at least six inches high with mounds of whipping cream. "I don't see any blueberries."
"That's 'cause you're looking in the wrong place." Thrusting a finger into the dessert, he shoveled cream into his mouth and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "To find the little rascals, you're gonna have to undress me."
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 12
