"The real reason I went into town today was to meet with Professor Baines," Wyntir confided. "I felt like I owed it to him, after that horrible drubbing he received in the society pages. I mean, Dante was partly to blame for the brawl. Thank heavens the reporter didn't mention him by name." Wyntir fidgeted, averting her eyes. "Anyway, I worry about Professor Baines. After the Rocky lambasted him as a common ruffian, how can he hope to drum up clients?"
"The professore did throw the first punch," Sadie reminded her gently.
Wyntir shook her head. "You don't understand. This whole mess really started when Dante made me cancel three months worth of hypnosis appointments. That's when Professor Baines started struggling financially. Can you blame him for resenting Dante?" Wyntir said unhappily. "The professor was kind to me after Papa's death and so... I try to help him out."
"You mean, you loan him money?"
"Oh, no. Donations. For his research. He really is quite brilliant. I would go back to him in a heartbeat. I always felt so much peace and contentment after our sessions. But Dante, of course, wouldn't hear of it." Wyntir sighed. "I honestly think Professor Baines could help you, too, Fiore. You've been so brave about the conte's death. But surely your heart is hurting. Professor Baines calls it denial."
"Does he indeed?" Sadie struggled with her flare of temper. Wyntir was too tender-hearted for her own good. No wonder Dante forbade her to associate with Baines! "Did the professor ask you to petition me?"
Wyntir looked troubled. "No. No, he didn't. But he did ask me to convey his sincerest apologies. After seeing you with Dante at the hotel, he seems to think you're in need of... counsel.
"Fiore, please don't be angry with me," Wyntir pleaded. "You're my friend. I want you to be happy. I know what it's like to lose someone you love. And Dante is the most wonderful man in the world: compassionate. Caring. Even heroic! I can understand why you might feel drawn to him... um... the way a woman might."
Sadie had no trouble guessing where this seed of suspicion had been planted. She wanted to punch out Baines's other eye.
"Carina, if this professor suggested I behaved improperly—"
"I know you would never want to hurt me. And Dante wouldn't either." Wyntir's eyes were bright with unshed tears. "The truth is, I'm a little jealous." Her laugh was short and hollow. "I mean, you're so clever and confident around men. I feel so dull and inexperienced compared with you. I've hardly traveled anywhere, and certainly not outside the country.
"Papa only approved of me having two gentlemen callers before Dante came along. And I've never even been kissed! I'll be turning 21 in four days, but I can't help but wonder if I'll ever be woman enough for Dante. I don't want him to think of me as a child anymore. Or worse, a helpless invalid!"
"Now why would Dante think that?" Sadie soothed.
Wyntir worried her bottom lip. Glancing nervously toward the parlor entrance, as if she thought someone might be eavesdropping, she lowered her voice. "Ever since Papa's death, I've been waking from dreams—horrible dreams!—about shadow figures doing terrible things. Sometimes, my arms are black-and-blue. Sometimes, my legs are bruised. Once, I even had scratches on my neck!"
Sadie's scalp prickled. In light of Wyntir's continued association with Baines, her admission wasn't good news.
"What does the dottore make of this?"
"He thinks I'm sleepwalking." Wyntir turned as red as her flawlessly lacquered nails. "He thinks I bump into furniture at night, or I trip and fall. He gave me a sedative, but I don't want to take it. Sedatives make my head fuzzy, and I can't concentrate after I wake up." She began twisting the handkerchief in her lap. "The trouble is, when I don't take the sedative, the nightmares come back. So Dante suggested he sleep with me. To give me comfort and keep me from leaving the bed. But we're not married!" Wyntir added in scandalized tones.
"Fiore, you're a woman of the world," the heiress whispered anxiously. "Do you think I'm being silly? I do love him. I couldn't live without him. But I want him to feel the same way! If I let him hold me through the night, do you think he might come to love me the way a husband loves a wife?"
Sadie squirmed before the hope in the innocent's sky-blue eyes. She couldn't help but recall the night when she'd lost her own maidenhead. After Pine Grove's townsfolk had learned how the Klan lynched Daddy for being a Yankee spy, she and Mama had become pariahs. Sadie had begged the new Yankee marshal for help, and he'd let them sleep in his hayloft.
Because of the way he looked at her, Mama had predicted he would climb the ladder one night. Mama had tried to explain what to expect from a lover. Sadie had been afraid, but Mama had ordered her to cooperate. They needed a man's protection, Mama had said; they had nowhere else to go. At 13 years old, Sadie had experienced her woman's courses only once before the lawman finally did come to her bedroll, reeking of whiskey and sweat. When he'd started pawing her thighs, she'd thought the pumping and grinding would never end.
A few days later, her "lover" had dumped her and Mama on a brothel doorstep.
Sadie drew a shuddering breath.
"Sleeping with a man will not make him love you," she told Wyntir in a voice made harsh with secret pain. "If you do not wish to take the sedative, then put a cot in your room and hire a lady's maid. Frankly, I'm surprised a gentleman of Dante's caliber didn't suggest the maid himself."
Wyntir winced.
But before the infatuated young heiress could rise to her guardian's defense, the Dobermans started barking in the hall.
The doorbell pealed.
Wyntir's brow furrowed. "Dante must have forgotten he scheduled a patient."
Sadie rose. "Then I should take my leave, carina." And get Mace to put a tail on you.
"But I was hoping you'd stay for dinner!"
"Alas, I have an engagement in town."
Wyntir looked disappointed, but she accompanied Sadie to the foyer, where she intercepted the butler and sent him to fetch Sadie's driver.
Standing before a convenient hallway mirror, Sadie took extra time with her hat so she could spy on Dante's visitor. She glimpsed the reflection of a familiar black Stetson bobbing in the window. Wreathed in a cloud of frosty breaths, like an undeserved halo, Lucifire stood waiting on the porch.
Damn you, Cass. Are you following me again?
Wyntir called off the dogs and opened the door. "Mr. Cassidy, what a surprise!"
"Good afternoon, Miss Wyntir." His smoky drawl would have made the angels blush. "You look as pretty as a sunset in that red dress."
Fuming, Sadie hung back in the shadows, watching Cass flash his dimples. She recognized his Schoolboy's Smile, the one he donned to hide his Wolf from unwed innocents. He liked to use other, wickeder grins to charm the bloomers off more experienced prey. But for the moment, he was playacting the gentleman, which meant he was up to no good.
"Those are mighty fine watchdogs," he said, outwardly unperturbed by the show of fangs.
Then again, Sadie mused, why should Cass worry about dogs? He never dressed without an arsenal at his command. She had half a mind to warn Wyntir she was flirting with a felon, who was wanted for three counts of stage coach robbery!
"Thank you, Mr. Cassidy. Papa raised them from pups."
"They sure are fond of you." The throbbing caress in his drawl elicited suspicious rumbles from Wyntir's furry bodyguards. "What do you call them?"
The sheltered young heiress was hopelessly out of her league. She squirmed. She giggled. She patted a dog's head.
"This one's Maximus," she said, shushing her nearest protector, who sported a black collar. "And the one with the red collar is Brutus."
"So that's how you tell them apart. You must sleep like a baby, knowing they're guarding your bed."
A muscle ticked in Sadie's jaw. The reprobate had needed 20 seconds—only 20 seconds!—to work Wyntir's bedroom into the conversation.
But if Wyntir's maidenly sensibilities objected to this scandalous topic, she ignored them.
"Oh no, Mr. Cassidy
! My Persian, Tallie, sleeps with me. If the dogs so much as drool on my quilt, Tallie claws their noses! The cat rules the upper story, but the dogs don't mind. They get the kitchen."
Cass chuckled. "I reckon your cook has to guard Doc's steaks with a cleaving knife."
"Maximus and Brutus do tend to get banished at mealtime," Wyntir admitted, blushing prettily. "But I promise, Mr. Cassidy, you're perfectly safe to come inside. Dante gets lots of visitors. Isn't that right?" she called to Sadie.
Sadie made a concerted effort to unclench her fists. Little did Wyntir know, she'd just volunteered enough intelligence to let Cass rob her house.
Drawing upon a nerve she'd honed while glaring down wolf-whistlers from a saloon stage, Sadie strolled into the slanting shafts of afternoon. Cass looked surprised when she rustled into view in her golden walking dress, shot with silver threads and loaded with ivory seed pearls. The gown had cost Alan Pinkerton an amount equal to six months of her salary.
Cass, who was an expert on ladies' clothing—or rather, an expert on removing ladies' clothing—grinned appreciatively. She was somewhat mollified to learn she still had the power to swell his crotch, even though he'd come to Greyfell Manor to seduce a younger, far richer beauty.
"Howdy, Lady Contessa," he greeted drolly. "You weren't hiding from me, were you?"
"I assure you, signore," she lied with practiced indifference, "the thought of you never crossed my mind."
"I reckon the doc must be keeping you busy. You look kinda tuckered out."
She pasted on a catty smile. "You have no idea."
Possessive, gunfighter's eyes raked her from hat to toe. Cass could see a dewdrop on a silver maple leaf at 50 paces. If she really had a love nip or kiss-bruised lips, no amount of face paint or powder could have disguised them.
"Sorry to hear you've been under the weather, ma'am. I was just about to tell Miss Wyntir, here, why I came to call on the doc."
"You suffer delusions of grandeur?"
Amusement flickered over the chiseled planes of his sun-gilded face. "Aw, shucks. I never knew a purtier lady with a jollier sense of humor. But to tell the truth, ma'am, I thought the doc might like his watch back."
Wyntir sucked in her breath. "You found it?"
"Sure did," Cass said, overdoing the braggadocio. He liked his enemies to think he was stupid. "I wrassled that rascally coon for it. Made myself a hat." He winked, hooking his thumbs over his belt buckle. "Tell the doc there's no hard feelings. I'll even cut my finder's fee in half."
"Oh. Um... I see." Wyntir pasted on a smile. "Won't you come in, Mr. Cassidy?"
"Thank you kindly." He hiked an eyebrow at Maximus, who'd begun growling again. "Maybe you should take the dogs to the kitchen, ma'am. They look hungry."
"Yes. Yes, of course. Please make yourself at home. The parlor's that way," she added with a wave of her hand. "Dante! Mr. Cassidy is here! He found your pocket watch."
Sadie shot her ex-lover a withering glare as his brawny shoulders filled the doorway. The long, golden rays of daylight flared around him, limning his shadow-steeped figure in flames.
Somehow, the image was appropriate.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she whispered.
He flashed unrepentant dimples. "Doing a little reconnaissance. Earning a little poker money. If I play my cards right, I'll score dinner too."
"You mean dessert," she accused.
"Well, since you mentioned it—" he reached playfully for a sausage curl, spilling across her bodice "—I do have a hankering for chestnuts."
She slapped his hand away. "Louse."
"Jealous?"
"Not in the least. I'll leave the spitting and clawing to Tallie."
"I'm not worried. Pussies like me."
She was sorely tempted to punch out his lights, but she was distracted by the creaking of an overhead timber. Dante appeared on the landing, tall and regal in his impeccably tailored broadcloth. A moment passed as his dark eyes rested on her. Then he sized up his visitor.
"Mr. Cassidy." Something akin to martyrdom twisted Dante's handsome features. He began to descend. "We meet again."
"Today's your lucky day, Doc."
"Indeed." Dante paused at the foot of the stairs and lavished a heart-tripping smile on her. "Contessa." He raised her glove to his lips. "Always a pleasure. You are staying for dinner, of course."
Sadie felt, rather than saw, Cass stiffen. As much as she would have liked to encourage Dante's flirtation and watch Cass stew, the risk to her cover was too great—especially with Cass's unleashed mouth on the premises.
"You are most kind, dottore. Perhaps another time. I have an engagement in town."
"Disappointing. But you will allow me the opportunity to catch up at the opera next Thursday."
"I shall count the hours, carino," she purred, mostly to piss off Cass. She just wished she could be confident that Wyntir's love for Dante would make the younger woman immune to Cass's Coyote Charm.
With a cool nod to her lover—ex-lover, Sadie reminded herself harshly—she gathered her skirts and marched down the steps to her rented cab.
As the coach bounced over the frozen ruts in the road, she gazed out the western window and pondered the next step in her mission. Her day with Wyntir had given her a great deal to think about.
At first, Sadie had been eager to pump the younger woman for information about Fowler. But Wyntir was better acquainted with Rebekah, who, apparently, had been the preacher's ward for six months. According to Wyntir, Fowler had adopted the catatonic Rebekah from an asylum because "her lost and grieving spirit had come to him in a dream, begging for help."
Honestly, how could Wyntir believe such rubbish?
Sadie supposed she could get Brodie to make a few discreet inquiries, via telegraph, to uncover the truth. But even if Fowler had adopted Rebekah after her parents died in a fire, his motivation had surely been to make a fortune from her mental instability. Sadie refused to believe Fowler was "a messenger of angels," as Wyntir professed him to be. To Sadie's way of thinking, Fowler was a wolf, and Wyntir was hopelessly gullible.
Despite her private misgivings about Fowler, however, Sadie was beginning to think Baines was the more likely Maestro suspect—especially after she'd seen him drooling over that musical humidor.
But the biggest strike against Baines was Wyntir's confession that she'd been donating money to his research. Knowing what Sadie now knew about the professor's shady past, she deduced that he'd hypnotized Wyntir to be his cash cow, and worse, that he'd induced her to do other things against her will, as evidenced by the bruises she couldn't explain.
Now all Sadie had to do was prove Baines had been responsible for Minx's death. Unfortunately, that task was going to be easier said than done. But Sadie had been fortunate in one respect. She'd tracked down the lead given to her by Mattie Silks. Disguising herself as an elderly "worried aunt," Sadie had snooped around Tabor's Grand Opera House, learning that the First Violinist had, indeed, been smitten by the Leadville reporter, "Claudia Dunlap." When he'd described this Claudia's appearance, he'd described Minx—right down to the tiny gap between her front teeth.
"Naw, I didn't give your niece a music box," the violinist said sheepishly. "To tell the truth, ma'am, I think she was sweet on some other guy. She never mentioned him by name, but she was always busy in the evenings. I figured he made her a better offer the night she didn't show up for our dinner appointment. Sorry I couldn't be more helpful, but your niece seemed chummy with that high-society miss, Wyntir Greyfell. Maybe you should pay her a call."
Strangely enough, Wyntir had no recollection of Minx. When the undercover Pinkie had called at Greyfell Manor to consult with Dante, surely Wyntir would have been curious about her. The two women were similarly aged. Wyntir was heart-breakingly lonely. Minx would have had no trouble earning Wyntir's trust. And yet, Wyntir had blinked blankly at Sadie when she'd described Claudia Dunlap.
Did Baines hypnotize Wyntir to forget Minx?
&
nbsp; A nasty bump in the road jolted Sadie from her musings. She grabbed the leather strap above her head to keep from bouncing off the seat.
The day star was dipping behind the mountains, setting the sky aflame with streaks of tangerine and gold. She shivered, glad for the warmth of the brazier. She still wasn't used to the rapid drop in temperature when night enveloped the plains. She was looking forward to a stiff drink before she had to report to Mace.
Suddenly, her ears pricked to the sound of pounding hooves. A horse was gaining on the cab. She heard the driver call out. Masculine laughter followed. Warily, she let her .32 slide into her palm even as a puff of steam fogged her window. Moments later, the nose of a laboring buckskin bobbed into view, followed by a familiar, black Stetson and a cocksure grin.
Cass waved at her.
She flipped him off.
He blew her a kiss.
She yanked the shade over the window and holstered her gun.
In the next instant, the door banged open, Cass vaulted inside, and Pancake veered away from the cab.
"Are you insane?!" she shouted as he slammed the door. "You could have been killed!"
The scoundrel's eyes were bright with mischief. They gleamed like the Ranger star he'd pinned to his vest.
"Naw." He was crouching on the bucking floorboards, riding them as effortlessly as he'd ridden his gelding. "Me and Pancake chase down runaway coaches all the time."
She groaned. "Remind me to put that epitaph on your tombstone. Right under the code name, 'Screw Up.'"
"I like the screwing part."
"You would."
"'Sides. Your naughty middle finger invited me inside."
"No part of me invited you inside."
"Challenge accepted!" he cried like P.T. Barnum's ringmaster. He plunked his derriere on her seat.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 14
