She swallowed hard. Was she imagining it? Or had a tremor just moved down Cass's gun arm?
Hope clutched her heart. He's fighting. Good Cass is alive inside and fighting!
"Is that what you did to Minx?" Sadie demanded, desperately trying to give Good Cass the time he needed to win. "Screwed her with a whiskey bottle?"
"I didn't think of it at the time," Goddard admitted wryly, "but it would certainly have kept her from spawning."
"So you sent Minx over the bridge with your baby in her womb?!"
"Genius such as mine can only be bred from a pure lineage."
My God, my God, Cass kill him!!
"And Wyntir? Is her lineage pure enough for you?"
Goddard laughed. The sound was freakishly sane. "That harebrained twit? You add to your sins by insulting my intelligence.
"But no matter. Despite the best efforts of your entire Pinkerton Agency, my stay in Denver has made me a wealthy man. The Heart of Fire, the Namdaran Emeralds, and Mephistopheles's Jewels are but a few of the treasures I've tucked away for safekeeping. After the heat dies, I'll return to Denver to retrieve them.
"In the meantime—" he dropped the stub of his cigar, letting it smoke and sputter in the snow "—I must bid you adieu. The Union Pacific waits for no man. With your curiosity satisfied, I trust you can die fulfilled—or at least, as fulfilled as an abominable failure can be.
"Mr. Cassidy."
The air iced in her lungs.
"Kill the Pinkerton whore."
Cass's thumb cocked the hammer.
Sadie's eyes brimmed. This is it, then? Good Cass lost the battle?
As stiff and pale as alabaster, the hauntingly beautiful face of her lover swam in the kaleidoscope of her tears. Despite her tremors, she raised her head and stood her ground. She told herself she wasn't afraid to die. Maisy, Mama, and Papa were waiting on the Other Side. Cass would shoot straight and true. She would feel no pain.
She just had one last piece of unfinished business. "I forgive you, Cass."
His gun barrel quivered.
"I love you. I've always loved you," she whispered, the tears sliding free.
"Mr. Cassidy," Goddard barked. "You have your order. Kill the Pinkerton whore."
She braced herself.
Time slowed.
The air became sharper, fresher. Her heart hammered harder to sustain her ending life. The rush of her blood was dizzying. Her entire existence telescoped to that moment. To Cass, her childhood friend, her adolescent sweetheart, her Beloved. The man whose fiery spirit burned like the twin flame of her soul.
And then in the deep, dark winter of those colder-than-cold eyes, she saw a spark.
The spark became a flame.
A hellish rage blazed to life.
Lucifire was reborn!
Slowly, methodically, he depressed the gun hammer. The .45 slid from his glove and plunged, muzzle-first, into the snow.
No! My God, Cass, what are you doing?!
She wanted to trigger the .32 up her sleeve, but she couldn't move. She couldn't breathe. It was as if angelic forces had immobilized her body with invisible wings.
Goddard's mask of civility melted away. His once handsome face twisted with noxious malice. She was sure he was shouting something vicious and blood-curdling, but she couldn't hear the words. Her pulse was roaring like a speeding locomotive in her ears.
She saw Goddard shove a hand inside his hip pocket.
She saw the ghost of a smile touch Lucifire's lips.
When Goddard's fist reappeared, it was cocking a pistol. The demon in Cass unleashed. Striking like black lightning, he triggered the .38 up his sleeve. The first bullet drilled through Goddard's maniacal brain. The second ripped through his fiendish heart.
Bullets three and four shattered the humidor, scattering cigars, metal gears, and splinters of wood across the snow.
But Lucifire wasn't satisfied. He dropped his spent .38 and yanked the .45 from the snow. Sadie ducked, covering her head, as bullets zinged off the bell tower. The clock face shattered. The minute hand spun circles around the numbers. Chunks of sandstone tumbled off the masonry.
Now the .45 was spent. Lucifire's vengeful, burning eyes sought a new weapon. They alighted on Goddard's fallen pistol.
"Cass, stop!" Her limbs shaking like jelly, Sadie forced herself to step between him and the spreading blood stain in the snow. "It's over! You've won!"
Lucifire's lethal stare pinned her like a fly on a wall. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"Cass, hear me," she pleaded, forcing the words past her constricting throat. "He can't hurt you anymore. He can't hurt anyone. Not even me."
Confusion muddied that fearsome gaze. He blinked. He scrubbed a hand over his face. When he staggered, she wrapped him in her arms. He buried his face in her hair.
"My God, Sadie." His muffled voice cracked with shame. "All I wanted to do was protect you."
"You did, Cass."
"I'm so sorry..."
"No one will ever know what he did to you," she vowed fiercely. "No one will ever find out."
He dragged her into a crushing embrace. When he folded her body against the wild cadence of his heart, his shoulders quaked.
That's when she realized he wept.
Chapter 23
Over the next few days, the Rocky pieced together sensational stories of Maestro's crimes. The shocking headlines spared few reputations:
Maestro Unmasked:
Evil Mastermind Disguised as Wyntir's Guardian
Dolce Eats Crow:
Daredevil Revealed as Undercover Cop
Lilybelle Donates $100K:
New Asylum Named 'Sheridan's Shelter'
But the Rocky also published a glowing testament to Denver's newest celebrity:
Raccoon Hero Saves the Day:
Maestro's Stolen Jewels Recovered
Sadie couldn't help but smile as she clipped an adorable etching of Vandy for her Pinkerton report. The coon was romping in the snow, his furry neck adorned with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds—or rather, glass replicas.
Minutes after the shootout in the cemetery, Cass had spied the chubby prankster tangled in the real jewels and somersaulting into a tombstone. Apparently, Goddard had tucked the Heart of Fire, the Namdaran Emeralds, Mephistopheles's Jewels and some lesser-known treasures inside a former taffy tin and stashed his cache inside an abandoned critter den. Needless to say, Vandy's matchless nose had sniffed out the candy.
But the biggest surprise of the hour, at least to Sadie's mind, had been Mace's commendation. Before closing Minx's case, the senior agent had made a special effort to apologize for doubting Sadie's instincts, especially about Goddard's modus operandi. In his report, Mace had praised her for the quick thinking that had saved them both from Maestro's tainted bottle of wine.
Even so, Sadie wasn't looking forward to traveling with her boss to headquarters in Chicago for a debriefing tomorrow. Too many long, arduous hours of staring out a train window were dangerous temptations. She might inadvertently blurt out something about Cass's ordeal. To a mind as keen as Mace's, even an innocent, off-hand comment might help him connect the dots. Since he carried a grudge against Cass, she didn't want him to have the barest inkling that Goddard had tried to turn Cass into a mindless killer.
The muffled ding of the elevator distracted Sadie from her thoughts. She glanced at the mantel clock.
Good grief! It's 5:40 already! I haven't finished dressing for Wyntir's Thanksgiving party!
Sadie barely had time to clip citrine dangles to her ears before a fist pounded on her door. Her heart skipped, anticipating a reunion with Cass. Hastily, she checked her reflection. Her cheeks were flushed beneath her powder. Her eyes were luminous above her kohl. She looked like she felt: nervous. Excited. Dangerously in love. Cass had promised her a surprise this evening.
Hiking her amber-colored skirt, she hurried to the door.
But when she threw it wide, her elation deflated a notch. Collie sto
od on the threshold, scowling more than usual.
"What's wrong?"
"News maggots," he grumbled, letting Vandy streak past her ankles. "They keep pestering me with questions. How'd I train a coon? Is he smarter than a hound? Will I be taking that offer to sell him to the circus?" Collie snorted at the sheer stupidity of this latter question. "Cass said a deputy's supposed to keep the peace, so I threatened to fill their britches full of buckshot. The reporters thought I was joking."
Sadie's eyes widened. "You mean—?"
"Yeah," Collie grumbled. "Cass confiscated my shotgun. He told me to fetch you while he holds them off in the lobby."
Sadie loosed an exasperated breath. She wasn't sure what to think of the boy's story. Reporters had been dogging Collie's heels. His surly façade hid a painfully shy streak, so she could understand why Cass might wade into the fray, distracting the reporters to let the boy escape unwelcome attention.
On the other hand, Cass and Collie were thicker than thieves. She wouldn't have been surprised if the boy was only telling half the story, since Cass had been avoiding alone-time with her since the cemetery shootout. She'd been hoping Thanksgiving would be different...
Suddenly, she realized Collie's hair was slicked back. He smelled of lemongrass soap, and he was wearing a black string tie. Since the kid didn't own a stitch of frou-frou, she suspected Rex's influence.
She hiked an eyebrow. "You're looking mighty fine this evening."
"Don't start." His neck had turned beet red. "You ready?"
"Uh... I just need some lip paint."
Muttering about skirts and "war paint," he stalked across the threshold and made a beeline for her tequila bottle. "You'd better hurry. You're gonna be sorry if you're late."
"Oh?" She tried to hide her curiosity. Without a doubt, Collie was aware of Cass's surprise. "Why's that?"
He tossed her a withering look. "'Cause Wyntir's dogs will eat the turkey."
Liar. She smirked. "Why do I get the feeling you're still sore that Vandy's escaped from the knapsack?"
His jaw jutted.
"Honestly, Collie." She shook her head and reached for her paint pot. "Your coon made out like a bandit."
"What's Vandy gonna do with a $10,000 reward? Even he can't eat that many crawly-fish."
"Maybe Vandy will make you a loan," she said dryly.
"What am I gonna do with $10,000? I already got a horse and guns. Ammo only costs 50 cents a box, and Wilma promised me five cases of Wild Turkey if I mend her roof."
"That should last you till Christmas."
"That's being optimistic," Collie deadpanned. Then he grew thoughtful. "Maybe I should buy a still. And brew my own mash."
"Or here's a thought. Why don't you hire a tutor to help you with your ABC's?"
"Book-learning?" Collie looked horrified. "Are you trying to kill me, woman?"
Sadie sighed. Collie didn't understand how much he was missing by being semi-literate. She hated to say it, but his ignorance had actually worked in her favor. His contempt for books had let her keep her promise to Cass—namely, that no one would ever learn what had happened in the cemetery.
After the shootout, she'd searched Goddard's corpse and found his lab journal. Finding the entries about Cass, she'd nearly retched on the spot. The Pinkerton in her had demanded that the book be surrendered as evidence. The woman in her had feared for her lover's badge. Conflicted about her course of action, she'd slipped the journal into her pocket and hurried off to help catch Vandy.
Hours later, when Collie had retreated behind her dressing screen to don his clothes, she'd panicked, remembering where she'd left the journal. But she needn't have worried: Collie had no use for books.
"Here," he'd said, tossing her the grisly record. "You left this in my coat."
Sadie drew a shuddering breath and tried to push aside the memory of how she'd broken the law, burning every last page in that little book of horrors. She prayed that all of Goddard's victims would live out their lives with no ill effects, as the psychiatrist had claimed.
"I'm ready to leave now," she announced to Collie.
The boy muttered something that sounded like, "Hallelujah," then lunged for Vandy, who was trying to wash one of Sadie's earbobs in her tequila glass. She hid her amusement as the furry thief fled into the hall.
When the elevator doors opened in the lobby, Sadie realized that Collie hadn't been exaggerating about the reporters. Three men with pencils and notepads circled Cass, who was entertaining them with gun-spinning tricks.
"So far so Good," Collie muttered, scooping Vandy into his arms. "The maggots didn't hear the elevator ding. Keep hidden till I make my getaway."
"But where are you going?"
"Telegraph office. I'll catch up with you later."
Sadie's lips quirked as the boy hauled his chubby, bright-eyed load across the lobby and bolted out the 18th Street entrance.
Then her eyes strayed to Cass. He'd drawn quite a crowd. He was cracking jokes and accepting dares. Cass lived to showboat.
Gladdened to see the return of the winsome Coyote, Sadie perched unobtrusively on the arm of a settee and watched her lover perform. He juggled; he spun; he tossed guns over his shoulders and caught them behind his back. Clearly, he was feeling better. The rings around his eyes weren't as pronounced as they'd been that harrowing night in the graveyard. The fading welts on his throat were now hidden beneath a high, starched collar and cravat. Cass looked like the happy-go-lucky Coyote of old except, of course, he was wearing holiday swallowtails.
But beneath the fancy broadcloth, Sadie worried that the man she loved had changed—and mostly, toward her. For three days, he'd holed up in a darkened hotel room with tequila. He'd refused the meals she'd ordered for him. He'd barked at well-meaning chamber maids to go away. The only visitors he'd allowed through the door were Collie and Vandy, as long as they'd smuggled his favorite physician, "Dr. Cuervo," past the elevator operator.
Sadie had understood that Cass was trying to cope with the horror he'd lived through. She'd tried to be patient.
Then, yesterday morning, she'd learned that Allan Pinkerton wanted her in Chicago. With the clock ticking on the precious hours she had left with Cass, she'd practically begged him to let her inside his room.
Yesterday had been the first time they'd been utterly alone since the cemetery. Her throat constricted as she remembered how he'd tossed an uneasy glance at his gun belt before edging away from the bed post, where he'd hung it.
An aching silence had descended like an invisible barrier between them. She'd imagined she could hear the soap foaming in his shaving bowl.
She'd tried to find something light-hearted to say.
"Vandy made the headlines again."
"Is that a fact?" Turning his back to her, he concentrated on his shave.
"Boone started a petition. He wants to get Vandy elected mayor. Some lunatics, from a group called The Brotherhood of Rascals, actually signed it."
"Boone'll do anything to sell papers. I'll bet he drafted his poker pals."
"Boone has 287 poker pals?"
Cass hiked an eyebrow. "How many signatures does Vandy need?"
"Three hundred. Collie's pitching a fit."
Cass laughed. The sound was a deep, warm rumble of mirth. Her heart swelled to hear it. Since his ordeal, Cass hadn't laughed much.
She watched him expectantly, hoping for some wisecrack. Some banter to keep the conversation going.
She was disappointed.
"Wyntir's planning a spectacular Thanksgiving feast," she reported, trying to find another topic to ease the tension. "Lilybelle promised to come. So did Rex and Wilma. Fowler and Rebekah will be making an appearance, too.
"As a matter of fact, Wyntir helped Fowler pay his tax penalty so he could spend the holidays, celebrating with his ward, rather than rotting in jail. He and Rebekah are going to move in with Wyntir—at least, until the snow clears and the spook show travels south. In the spring, Wyntir wants to move
to Texas."
Cass grunted, scraping off the left side of his beard. "So Wilma recruited her, huh?"
"Actually, Wyntir figured out why Minx carried a pistol and posed as a newspaper reporter."
Cass frowned. "You really think Wyntir has the gumption to be a Pinkie?"
Sadie sighed, toying with the slender gold chain that Cass had given her, by way of Vandy. Now that she wasn't a contessa anymore, she could finally wear Daddy's Confederate, brass button in plain sight.
"Wyntir does have a romantic streak. But she's strong-willed. And resilient, too. Most young women would have taken to their beds with laudanum after the trauma she lived through. But Wyntir got busy. She set up a scholarship in Minx's name. She got herself a language tutor and a firearms instructor. She even started remodeling the basement."
A shadow passed over Cass's face. Sadie could have kicked herself for mentioning Goddard's lair.
"I reckon some folks are just cut out to be a Pinkerton." Cass's eyes met hers briefly, uncomfortably, in the mirror. "You're one of those folks, Sadie. I was wrong about you. One hundred percent wrong. You're a helluva agent. I was impressed by how you convinced Denver's high-society you were a contessa. And how you fought off those ruffians in Mattie's alley. And how you figured out the music box clue.
"And then there's the way you handled yourself in the graveyard." His voice broke, and his chest heaved. "That had to be one of your finest hours."
Tears glazed her eyes.
"You were meant to be a Pinkerton," he continued gruffly. "Just like Roarke Michelson was before you. I think he would have been proud of you. I know I am."
"Thank you, Cass," she whispered. "That means a lot."
He nodded, dunking his razor to rinse off the soap. "And I won't ever doubt you again. Or stand in your way. You don't need some gunslinging hothead hanging around, risking your cover."
"Cass..." She didn't like where this conversation was heading. "We solved the Maestro case together. We made a good team."
Grimacing, he reached for his towel and began scrubbing his face. "You don't have to throw this ol' dog a charity bone, darlin'. You and I both know I got in your way."
Dance to the Devil's Tune (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 2) Page 30
