"Ow."
Privately, he conceded just how useful that Dark Place had been. Now pinpricks of light jabbed his brain. The sun was glaring him straight in the eye. But at least it wasn't flashing.
Funny. A flashing sun...
Chuckling weakly, he winced again. His throat was as raw as carrion. A sea of fresh straw surrounded him. In his arms, he clutched an empty bottle of Talisker whisky. His clothes stank of urine and sweat. He had no idea where he was; no idea how he'd gotten there. And why the hell had he been drinking a prissy man's Scotch?
He pushed it aside.
"Must've been some bender, eh, Fiddle Foot?" he told his horse.
Pancake stomped and jingled some more.
"Ow," Cass whispered again.
Sound hurt. Light hurt. Breathing hurt. He was surprised when his arm actually obeyed his command to retrieve the Stetson. He'd been worried he had some smashed bones.
How'd my wrists get so bruised? And my ankles?
"I'd hate to see the other fella," he rallied, testing his legs. "The one who lost the brawl."
Grabbing hold of Pancake's stirrup, he pulled himself to his knees. Gripping the saddle's girth strap, he dragged a foot under him. By the time he'd hauled himself high enough to reach the horn, he was panting hard.
Retching felt good. So he did it again.
At last, he was able to stand—or more accurately, lean. He pressed his cheek against Pancake's neck. It felt warm and soft—comforting, like home.
"Ponies don't go to hell, right?" he murmured into that golden-brown fur. "So if you're here, I must be somewhere north of Hades."
Pancake stood like a mountain. Strong and silent. Still.
"You must've pulled me out of some jam, pal." Cass patted the gelding's neck. "Always working that apple angle, huh?"
Pancake's tail whacked his calves.
"Again: Ow."
He caught the pony's bridle and led him out of the stall. Some fine-looking horse flesh stared back at him across the aisle. They were all thoroughbreds, judging by their deep chests, high withers, and long legs. Not a single groom was in sight. Cass could have rustled his pick.
But Pancake had saved his life. As far as Cass was concerned, his rustling days were through. He wouldn't trade his buckskin quarter-horse for a king's ransom in gold.
"I'm gonna make you a Ranger's horse, Pancake."
The gelding's ears swiveled skeptically.
"Believe it, son. You and me, we're a team. Like eggs and bacon. Biscuits and gravy. Chili and beans."
Cass's stomach heaved, threatening to turn inside out.
"All right. No more food talk," he said weakly. "But you get the idea. When I get us back to Texas, we'll both be heroes."
There was just one little thing he had to do first. Some nagging thing, he couldn't remember. The memories scattered like smoke on the wind. He frowned, blaming the Talisker.
Damned prissy man's liquor.
In the crackling chill beyond the stable's doors, his breaths formed puffs of steam. He halted to get his bearings. Frozen ruts stretched under a canopy of icicle-laden conifers. He recognized carriage tracks, winding off through the woods. Around a bend in the drive, he glimpsed a chimney and a mansard roof.
Nice neighborhood.
He'd been expecting Holladay Street.
Screwing up his face, he squinted at a white mass of brightness, behind a lowering, gray cloud. The sun appeared in the three o'clock position. He still had time.
Time for what?
He rubbed his forehead, but the massage didn't help. He couldn't remember.
"If today was my birthday," he told Pancake, "and I couldn't remember where the party was, that would be a bad thing."
A birthday party?
His humor ebbed. A spark of memory flared. Just as quickly, it got snuffed out by the tentacles of fog, stretching out from the Dark Place. He had the oddest sense he wasn't supposed to remember. And that pissed him off.
"I don't suppose you can tell me, Batter Head."
Pancake's great, liquid-brown eyes blinked. Somewhere in that bottomless gaze hid all of Cass's secrets. Or at least, all his secrets since he'd rustled the big, amicable buckskin from a hitching post in Pancake, Texas.
"Maybe a bath would help. Don't worry, I meant for me, not you. Find me hot water, pard."
He heaved himself into the saddle. The earth pitched. The sky spun. He choked the saddle horn for dear life.
"But find it real slow," he wheezed, fighting off another dry puke.
Pancake obliged. Slow was his favorite gait.
Somehow, as they made their way down the avenue, Cass didn't topple into the bushes. He paid no attention to the magnificent houses behind the brick walls and wrought-iron fences. He was too busy trying to remember things: like where he'd gotten the whisky. And who owned the thoroughbreds. And why he had welts, like giant bee stings, on his neck. He was deathly allergic to bees. Shouldn't he be buzzard bait by now?
The clopping of hooves distracted him from these uneasy musings. An unmarked carriage rattled around the bend. The well-bundled whip clutched a flask in one hand and the reins in the other. Cass guessed the hack was a rental.
As the team of Morgans drew abreast of Pancake, the whip raised a toast. Cass pinched his hat brim. As far as he was concerned, they were two chilly strangers, passing in a ditch. That's why he didn't waste a second thought on the bespectacled youth, gawking at him through the isinglass windows.
A moment later, he heard a disgruntled whoa. Cass glanced over his shoulder in time to see a coach door swing wide. A beardless beanpole, dressed in red livery with epaulets, jumped into the slush.
"Ranger Cassidy!"
Cass winced. Loudness wasn't his friend. He waved a greeting and urged Pancake to continue onward.
"It's Brodie, sir!"
Brodie. The memory hit Cass straight between the eyes. Brodie, the Pinkerton.
Something cold and cunning whispered from the Dark Place: Kill...
Cass shook his head. Mostly to clear it.
Turning Pancake, he rode back toward the coach. Brodie waited, fresh-faced and eager.
"I reckon you didn't recognize me in my valet disguise," the boy said proudly. He looked like a lobster with golden scrub brushes on his shoulders.
Cass hiked an eyebrow. It was one of the few things on his body that moved without throbbing. "So that's why you're all ragged-out?"
The boy nodded, pushing his spectacles up his nose. He was finally able to take a closer look at Cass's welts and bruises. Or maybe he smelled the urine. In any event, his forehead puckered.
"You've been missing for hours, sir! Where've you been?"
"Around."
"You look like you tangled with a grizzly bear!"
"So?"
Brodie flinched at his brusque tone. "Um... I reckon that bear wasn't anything you couldn't handle, sir."
"That's right. And that bear will stay our secret. Comprende?"
Brodie nodded vigorously, wide-eyed and breathless.
Cass relaxed his wrist, preventing his .38 from sliding into his fist. Apparently, he still had a loyal mole in Ryker's organization. "What's the word on the street?"
"Ryker came up empty-handed," Brodie reported disdainfully. His dislike of Ryker was the main reason why Cass had been able to recruit him. "Sadie's the one who saved the day. She snatched Miss Wyntir's journal. The trouble is, today's Sunday. Ryker's trying to get a search warrant, but Judge Hadley is on holiday in New York. Ol' Judge Mad Dog—er, I mean, Maddox—has a grudge against Ryker. Sterne might have to step in. Unfortunately, Sterne's got a strike against him, too, 'cause Maddox can't abide Rangers. He thinks they're all murderers, sanctioned by Texas to wear a badge."
Cass cocked his head. Little of this report made sense. "So... I'm in the clear?"
"Oh. Um, that." Brodie fidgeted. "Not exactly, sir. Ryker and Sterne have been distracted by the warrant, that's all. But if you found some evidence to help them, som
ething to earn their trust, that would sure go a long way toward clearing your name."
Cass grunted.
"Did you?" Brodie prompted.
Cass blinked blankly at the boy.
"Last night at the house."
Cass still didn't have a clue what the kid was talking about. And that worried him. But pride compelled him to keep his mouth shut. To play along and not ask questions.
"Maybe. I reckon it'll take someone wiser than me to know for sure."
"So it wasn't the Namdaran Emeralds?" Brodie looked disappointed. "Or the Heart of Fire?"
That insidious, sibilant voice was whispering again from the Dark Place.
Cass frowned. He rubbed his forehead.
"Ranger Cassidy, sir? You all right?"
Cass winced as the boy raised his voice. "I'm not deaf, kid."
"Oh. Um... sorry."
"Take a message to Sadie. And only to Sadie. Got that?"
"Yessir."
"Tell her to meet me at dusk at the corner of 20th Street and Welton. In the churchyard. Tell her to come alone."
"But Ryker—"
"Do it." Cass drilled the kid with his gunfighter stare.
Brodie gulped. "Y-yes, sir. Do you still want me to deliver Don Dom's purse to Miss Greyfell?"
Cass had forgotten about Don Dom. He'd forgotten about a lot of things, apparently. "Change of plans. I'll do it later. You fetch Sadie. Leave Ryker to me."
The boy nodded uneasily. He handed the purse to Cass.
Satisfied his orders would be obeyed, Cass turned Pancake in the direction of his original destination, Holladay Street. There were things he needed to do before nightfall: Feed his horse. Take a bath. Bind his wounds. Clean his guns.
There was one other thing too. Something that had to happen in a churchyard with a bell. He didn't know what it was, exactly.
But something told him he'd remember when he saw Sadie.
Chapter 21
Sadie jolted awake in her chair, her Smith & Wesson aimed at the penthouse door. Someone was pounding on it. The whole wall shook. Even the crystal teardrops, dangling from the sconces, were swaying.
She scrubbed a hand over her face. She figured the caller couldn't be Goddard or a minion from his secret army. Any of Goddard's puppets would have tried to lie their way into the penthouse, not break down her door.
Dragging her fingers through her hair, she made a cursory attempt to look presentable, pinching her cheeks and hiding her .32 beneath the sleeve of her bolero jacket.
"Coming! Coming," she muttered, appalled when she glanced at the mantel. The clock read 3:35—in the afternoon!
Somehow, she'd lost three hours off her day. She'd only intended to rest her eyes after Pryce had escorted her back from the Grand Central Hotel. She'd ridden there for a powwow with Wilma, Rex, and Mace about Wyntir's journal. Mace seemed to think they had grounds for a search warrant. Arranging for that warrant had been Rex's job.
Not trusting Mace to be sensitive to Wyntir's innocence—or her grief—Sadie had asked Wilma to accompany Mace and Rex to Greyfell Manor. In the meantime, Sadie was keeping up her contessa charade, in case the search proved fruitless.
Eager to know if her colleagues had unearthed the "secret laboratory" that Wyntir had described, Sadie cracked open the penthouse door.
She'd been expecting Mace. Instead, she found Collie.
"Shh!" she hissed, grabbing the boy's deerskin sleeve and dragging him over the threshold. "I'm being watched!"
Vandy wriggled his way through the maze of skirts and trouser legs, just barely clearing the threshold before the door swung closed.
"Hey! Watch the tail!" Collie snapped.
"Sorry."
Vandy didn't seem to mind her negligence. Full of forgiveness, he flopped on her shoes, kicked up her skirts, and generally made a nuisance of himself. She had to tug her petticoats from the playful coon's teeth.
"Did you find Cass?" she asked hopefully.
Cass had been missing for hours, and he hadn't found a way to communicate with her. Thanks to Dolce's accusations, every law enforcement agency in town was looking for him.
Collie wanted to find Cass too. The difference was, Collie didn't want Cass arrested. She'd had the devil of a time convincing the boy that she was on his side, mainly because Mace had ordered his most loyal men to watch her around the clock. In fact, he'd replaced the elevator operator with a Pinkerton.
Now Collie's flinty, streetwise glare darted beneath her bed, the chaise lounge, the draperies—anywhere a grown man might hide. Sadie wasn't sure whether he was hunting for Cass or Pinkertons.
Finally, a shadow passed over the boy's sun-gilded brow.
"I was hoping Cass sneaked in here," he admitted.
Damn!
Sadie struggled to ignore her frisson of dread. "Well, he knows he's being hunted. He knows they're watching me and you. He's a coyote. He knows where to hole up. Besides, he hasn't even been missing for 24 hours. I wouldn't worry about him, if I were you. I'm not."
"How the hell are you a Pinkerton? You can't lie worth crap."
She sighed. So much for playing Big Sister and trying to ease the boy's mind.
"Did you try Mattie's? The Bust-a-Gut? The Bonanza—"
Collie was nodding impatiently. "I tried every brothel on Holladay Street and every saloon in the Highlands. I even went to Porfi's. Nobody knows where he is."
"He probably convinced some bawd to cover for him."
"You mean he told her to humbug a kid with a coon?" Collie shook his head. "No way. He would have told her to let me in."
"But if he was worried you'd been followed—"
"I know how to ditch the law," he snapped. "I do it better than he does."
"In the wild? Maybe. In an unfamiliar city? Not so much."
They locked stares. Collie didn't like to be told he was wrong.
"Look," she said, struggling with her own notoriously short temper. "All I'm saying is, he's canny. That's why no jail can hold him. Besides, Rex would have sent word if Cass was arrested."
"Arrest ain't what I'm worried about," Collie said darkly.
Sadie quailed to see her worst fears mirrored in that troubled, pewter stare.
Suddenly, a polite rap shook the door.
Collie's Colt was in his fist faster than she could blink, which secretly impressed her. His quickdraw had come a long way since Cass had started training him last year. The boy jerked his head to the side, ordering her out of the line of fire. Vandy growled softly.
"Donna?" a muffled young tenor queried in Italian. "Sono io, il valletto di Don Nico."
Sadie hiked an eyebrow. Mace had sent an agent to play his valet? The boy's accent wasn't half bad.
She waved Collie out of sight, tossing him a warning look for good measure. He'd eased his thumb off the gun hammer, but he'd refused to holster the Colt.
Cass has been training him, all right.
"Buon pomeriggio," she greeted, adopting a regal mien as she opened the door.
Brodie inclined his head. "Si, donna."
Sadie hid her amusement. So much for the junior agent's Italian. Apparently, Brodie had memorized just enough vocabulary to get him in the penthouse, and 'good afternoon' hadn't been on the list.
"I came as fast as I could," he confided as she closed the door behind him.
Collie's narrowed gaze swept over Brodie's red coat, brass buttons, and white gloves. "Bellhops are supposed to wear blue around here."
Brodie straightened his spectacles. "You are Collier MacAffee," he said in some surprise. "Ranger Cassidy's friend."
"I know who I am. Who the hell are you?"
A flush rolled up Brodie's neck. "That's not important. What's important is Ranger Cassidy sent me." He turned his shoulder on the boy and locked stares with Sadie. "He wants you to meet him alone. St. John's Cathedral. At dusk in the churchyard."
Collie's thumb strayed back to his gun hammer. "Prove it."
Brodie's Adam's apple bobb
ed a couple of times. He looked to Sadie for help.
"Put away the gun, Collie." She felt like the weight of the world had lifted off her shoulders now that she knew Cass was alive. "I trust this messenger."
"Yeah? Well, I don't trust anyone associated with Ryker."
The boy had a point. But she wasn't going to let Brodie know she felt the same way.
"Then you mustn't trust me," she said impatiently.
"You're female. That's different." Collie's flinty gaze drilled into Brodie. "And dressin' like a girl don't count."
Brodie huffed, straightening his spine. "I'll have you know, Ranger Cassidy asked me to impersonate a valet to corroborate his Don Dominar alias!"
"Don Dom?" Collie cocked his head. A grudging acceptance vied with the suspicion on his face. "You dressed as a bootlicker for Cass?"
"Well, you wouldn't," Brodie said indignantly.
"Damned straight. You look like a crawfish. After a boil."
Sadie cleared her throat to hide her amusement. "If you boys are done cuss-fighting, I'll need a little help sneaking past Pryce."
"He ain't your only problem," Collie said grimly, holstering his Colt. "The fella in the elevator's got shoes that stink like rubber too."
So Collie noticed Pinkertons wear soft soles to tail suspects? That boy's going to make one canny tin-star someday.
"I have an idea," Brodie volunteered.
Sadie and Collie exchanged dubious looks.
"Mr. MacAffee will need to loan you his hat, coat, and cartridge belt, of course," Brodie said eagerly. "Oh. And his coon."
Collie blinked. "My coon?"
"Well, Miss Sadie can't very well impersonate you without Vandy."
A comical look of horror spread across Collie's face. Sadie coughed into her fist.
"What are you laughing at?" the boy growled.
She winked at Brodie. "Well, there is an alternative solution," she said in lilting tones. "I could loan Collie my bustle, corset, and lip paint—"
Collie was already stripping off his coat and scowling like a gargoyle. "When you find Snake Bait in that churchyard, tell him I'm gonna whup his ass. Oh, and make sure Vandy bites him."
By the time Sadie had finished dressing like a boy, the clock read 3:50. She spent another 10 minutes learning how to mimic a certain corn-cracker's gangly stroll, much to Collie's humiliation. By the time the boys had loaded Vandie into a knapsack and strapped the coon to her back, the clock read 4:05.
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 28
