Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "So we're early?"

  "Looks that way. Things used to run a whole lot smoother around here, before that Yankee cockroach won the joint last week. Aces high. Probably cheated." Baron tossed back a whiskey shot. "Damned Republican," he grumbled.

  Cass ducked his head to hide his smirk.

  "Anyhow, this Dietrich fella started making lots of changes. Busted Randie back to chorus. She's been headlining here nigh on eight years. Seems like a mean, low-down stunt to pull on a lady—even if that sweet little angelfish is getting long in the tooth."

  The barkeep coughed into his fist. The mirth in his eyes betrayed his stoic demeanor. "Mr. Dietrich hired a new headliner, senator. A Miss Cassandra McGuire. She's a torch singer from San Francisco. And a natural born redhead—so I hear."

  Baron's eyes warmed with interest. "Natural born, eh? Well, the Yankee's got taste in women, you gotta give him that. When does this new filly trot out on stage?"

  "Eight o'clock, sir. Mr. Dietrich changed the program last-minute to feature Miss McGuire."

  Baron harrumphed, checking his pocket watch. "Well, I reckon we got nothing better to do until the poker game starts. C'mon, boys. Let's find ourselves a stage-side table so we can take a look at the new gal's gams."

  But an alarm went off in Cass's head as he surveyed Baron's destination. "Wait." He caught the senator's arm. "Those footlights will make us sitting ducks."

  "You expecting trouble?"

  "Maybe. I'm thinking all the schedule changes might not be a coincidence. You're an influential man in the legislature. Someone might not want you around."

  The senator hiked a bushy eyebrow. "My arrival did cause a flurry in the dove cote. But I just figured the bawds were drawing lots to see who'd get first crack at my purse."

  "Could be." Cass wasn't convinced. "To be safe, why don't you and Collie get acquainted, while I scout the premises."

  Baron grunted. "You armed?"

  "'Course."

  The senator winked. Patting his own hidden shoulder holster, he waved Cass on his way.

  Compared with the poker room, the gaming hall was a mob scene. Cass stepped into the guttural din of male voices, wheezing trombones, and raucous laughter, punctuated by occasional bellows of, "Snake eyes!"

  After a leisurely stroll around the perimeter, he bellied up to the bar. Tossing down two bits, he ordered a shot of José Cuervo, then rested his elbows on the counter to survey the room. Near the stage, he spied the casino's duded-up new owner, Karl Dietrich, cracking his knuckles and ordering dancing girls around. Stocky, like a bouncer, Dietrich's darting eyes missed nothing. Cass took an instant dislike to him—and not just because the German was barking at women. Something about Dietrich wasn't quite right. He looked too young for gray hair and a silver goatee.

  Next, Cass noticed the sodbuster, whom Collie had spotted earlier on Post Office Street. The granger sat in a dimly lit corner without friends, women, or even a deck of playing cards. His tankard was foaming with cherry sarsaparilla.

  That country bumpkin traveled all the way to Sin City to drink fizzy pop?

  Suddenly, the sodbuster stiffened. He leaned intently across his table. Cass followed the man's gaze and noticed the rippling stage curtains.

  The auburn head of the mermaid queen split in two, replaced by a pile of upswept, flame-colored curls. A face that rivaled Aphrodite's hovered in that makeshift window for a moment, a bare fraction of time, but every nerve in Cass's body fired with recognition as a pair of tawny tiger eyes locked with his.

  He sucked in his breath.

  The face vanished.

  Damn.

  Cass's instincts had never failed him, and right now, they were screaming loud enough to rouse his pecker.

  The devil's own daughter smoldered behind that curtain, and the firebrand's name wasn't Cassandra McGuire.

  Chapter 2

  Sadie Michelson cursed under her breath as she dared to peer a second time through the stage curtains. Unfortunately, her eyes hadn't deceived her. The heartthrob with the sun-bronzed skin, sapphire eyes, and sinfully tight, leather chaps was none other than her cocky ex-lover.

  Eros in Spurs. That's what William Cassidy was called in polite society, but Dodge City bawds had dubbed him the Rebel Rutter after he'd accepted a bet to seduce a bride on her wedding day. And succeeded.

  There are 26 brothels on The Line, Cass. Why did you have to pick mine?

  Sadie fumed, and not just because the inveterate skirt-chaser had waved Randie to his side. In less than two minutes, Sadie was supposed to sashay onto the stage, wearing a shameless, black satin gown that fit too tightly to allow a corset.

  She was supposed to wiggle her hips, bounce her breasts, and tease the all-male crowd into a lusty lather during the first public performance of her Ballad of Lucifire.

  She was supposed to use her seductive arts to cozy up to a corrupt state senator and entice him to spill his guts.

  But how could she concentrate on making James "Baron" Westerfield confide all his loathsome secrets, when the real Lucifire lounged against the bar, sizzling hotter than the devil's pitchfork?

  Damn you, Cass, you're going to blow my cover!

  Panic threatened to drag her into its undertow. Four years ago, when Cass had ridden out of her life, she'd secretly died inside. Desperate to forget the soul-searing heat of his kisses, she'd clawed her way from the ashes, like a stubborn phoenix. She'd determined to prove to Allan Pinkerton that a cowtown whore had more useful talents than sex. Fighting her way into the Master Spy's secret circle of men, she'd gained credibility for her marksmanship, resourcefulness, and wit. She'd accomplished her directives in record time and more impressively, without bloodshed.

  Now she faced the highest-profile assignment in her Pinkerton career. The whole agency was scrutinizing her. If she could pin a murder charge on Baron, after all her illustrious male colleagues had failed, she would finally gain the satisfaction of silencing her critics.

  Determined to achieve that happy end, Sadie latched onto the first solution that presented itself: a busty blonde, who was hurrying past the curtains in her warrior-mermaid costume.

  "You're on, Randie."

  The older woman jerked her arm free. The glitter of frosty, green eyes challenged Sadie's right to order her around.

  "Dietrich told me to change my costume for the Can-Can."

  "Laryngitis," Sadie improvised in her hoarsest whisper. She patted her throat for emphasis. "Out of the blue."

  "Not my problem."

  Bristling, Sadie dug her fists into her hips. Miranda Reynolds had been a thorn in her side since Day One of this mission—not that Randie didn't have good reason. Only that morning, Pinkerton Agent Mace Ryker (alias, Karl Dietrich) had ordered the outraged soprano to give up the best bedroom in the brothel for his "new star performer."

  "With an attitude like yours," Sadie said, "no wonder Dietrich busted you back to hoofer."

  Well, that opened the proverbial can of worms.

  "Listen here, you braying bitch! I can sing circles around your rusted pipes—"

  Sadie grimaced as the 30-year-old diva aired her lungs. Only 20 feet of cigar smoke and a flimsy strip of velvet separated her from Cass. The whole reason she'd invented this laryngitis charade was so he wouldn't hear her.

  "Yes, yes," she hissed at Randie. God knew, she'd been cursed by whores before. None of the women in the chorus liked her. Sadie didn't really care, except she had a job to do, and snooping for intelligence in a whorehouse would have been a whole lot easier if the bawds had accepted her.

  Six days ago, Mace had snuffed out that pipedream after he'd "acquired the Siren in a wager" (Pinkertons had a way of getting what they wanted—fast.) Mace had cancelled Randie's solo performances to make room on the program for Sadie, who'd needed an entrée into Baron's close-knit circle of high-rollers.

  "Got it," Sadie rasped. "I'm slime, and you're a doughty diva who can twist into a pretzel, naked. You want the solo or not?"

>   The spite in Randie's glare transmuted into a far more dangerous weapon: cunning.

  "Your voice didn't sound so scratchy that time."

  Sadie could have kicked herself.

  "This sudden throat affliction wouldn't have something to do with Cass, would it... Cassie?"

  Sadie groaned inwardly. Why, oh why, did I choose that alias? She spread her hands in a questioning gesture.

  "Oh please." Randie snorted. "I had a chat with Mr. Long-Drink-of-Handsome by the bar. He told me you two go way back. He wanted directions to your dressing room. Frankly, I don't know what your problem is, trading a red-blooded charmer like Cass for a humorless prick like Dietrich. Stupid fever, maybe?"

  Sadie reined in her notorious, Irish temper. She was sorely tempted to point out that Cass hadn't earned his nickname because his talent was fidelity. However, laryngitis was supposed to be curbing her ability to mouth fight.

  "Fine," she snapped. "I'll ask Mimi to sing my solo."

  Randie blanched. "You can't," she protested, no doubt envisioning the triumph of her ambitious, 18-year-old understudy. "There isn't time. And besides, the show must go on."

  How convenient.

  "D-flat isn't exactly my key," Randie continued loftily, as if altos were a stink one scraped off one's shoe. "But I heard you caterwaul Lucifire enough times in rehearsal to commit the hokum to memory. Of course, by rights, a headliner should have a change of costume—"

  Sadie yanked off her black boa and draped it over Randie's shoulders. "Here," she whispered, pushing the shorter woman toward the curtain. "The show must go on, remember?"

  A smug smile curved Randie's lips. "Very well. I'll sing your stupid cowboy song. But you'll owe me. You'll owe me big."

  Attesting to the soprano's popularity, ear-piercing whoops and whistles accompanied the thunderous applause that greeted her unexpected return to the stage. Randie sauntered across the gleaming oakwood, all the way to front-and-center like a queen ascending her throne. A provocative little smile teased her lips as she turned her head from side to side, acknowledging the toasts of her admirers.

  Taking the opportunity to peer over the soprano's shoulder, Sadie scanned the sun-blackened faces at the bar.

  Uh-oh. Where's Cass?

  Hastily, Sadie checked the gamblers, gathered around the faro, roulette, and craps tables. She couldn't see her ex-lover anywhere. Biting her lip, she dropped the curtain, allowing inky-blue shades to crowd around her.

  Damn. Cass had already headed for her dressing room. That meant she'd have to retreat to her bedroom to retrieve a new costume—or better yet, a gun. Under a flood of stage lights, in skin-tight fishtails, she hadn't been able to disguise the bulge of a pistol on her thigh.

  Sadie barely heard the strings bow the opening chords of Lucifire. Her mind was in a whirl as she weaved through hulking shadows cast by theatrical backdrops, shaped like pirate ships, Poseidon, and whales. It occurred to her she should warn Mace about the Cass problem before she reported to Baron's poker game.

  Her feet faltered.

  Suddenly, she was distracted by a tendril of tobacco smoke. She tensed. She would have recognized that signature blend of cinnamon and cloves anywhere. However, spying Cass amidst the prop clutter in the stage's dimly lit wing was going to be another matter entirely.

  "The years have been good to you, Sadie."

  Her heart skipped as that seductive, Texas baritone caressed her name. He was closer than she'd imagined, invisible except for his cigarette. The tip brightened, kindling orange flames in the sapphire mirrors of his eyes. When he exhaled, silvery, aromatic fingers reached out to her, beckoned her, enticing her as only the promise of secrets and sin can.

  "You sound surprised," she rallied, reining in her galloping emotions. "What were you expecting? Wrinkles and warts?"

  "And a pointy, black hat."

  "Dog."

  A flash of white hinted at his grin—a dimpled, darling grin that still had the power to sneak into her dreams.

  He leaned a shoulder against the frame of a velvet swing. His new pose silhouetted him against the rising moon, peeking through the catwalk's window. Lunar light and star shine shimmered around his sun-streaked hair. Such a halo was incongruous for a man who looked like the devil in his thigh-hugging leather and denim.

  As if on cue, Randie's voice soared like larksong through the house:

  "Lucifire they called him,

  His draw was next to none;

  His smile was like an angel's;

  The devil ruled his gun.

  "The purdy gals in Texas

  Would sigh for him and swoon,

  When Lucifire went sparking—

  Sneaked thru windows to go sparking—

  Broke fair hearts when he went sparking—

  Each night beneath the moon."

  Cass chuckled, exhaling another stream of smoke. "Lucifire, huh? So that's how you're immortalizing my legend these days."

  She cringed inside. She'd been hoping the scapegrace had forgotten how she'd once confessed, in the throes of sentimental lunacy, that she wrote all her love songs about him.

  "You think I wrote those lyrics?"

  "Wrote them and intended to sing them—until you spied me in the crowd."

  "Nonsense."

  "'Laryngitis,'" he mocked, pitching his voice higher and imitating the way she'd patted her throat. "'Out of the blue.'"

  She kept smiling—barely. She remembered the other reason why Cass was so dangerous: he'd known her since puberty. They'd both come a long way since his thirteenth birthday, when he'd been forced to flee east Texas, charged with gunning down the Ku Klux Klansman, who'd murdered his older cousin. Still, Cass knew enough of her tricks and weaknesses to jeopardize her mission. Maybe even her life.

  He cocked his head. Randie was singing again:

  "The Devil in the darkness,

  His kisses burned like flame;

  Lawmen vowed to catch him;

  Fathers cursed his name."

  Sadie's face heated like a firecracker.

  Cass chuckled, tapping ash from his cigarette. "Not that I'm criticizing, but you might add a verse about how Mothers adore me. And how little kiddies want to grow up to be like me. You know, to keep the record straight."

  "Sure. And then I could add how pigs fly and buffaloes have wings."

  "Naw." He winked with roguish charm. "No one would believe that part."

  Randie launched into the next verse:

  "Wanted by the Rangers,

  And fleeing Lady Love,

  Lucifire nursed a secret–

  An aching, soul-deep secret–

  Young Lucifire hid his secret—

  His heart yearned for a dove.

  "Her eyes were hot as cinders,

  Her heart burned like a brand,

  The outlaw's red-haired siren,

  Would never wed one man.

  "The fearsome Texas Rangers,

  Drove our hero from his love.

  But Lucifire vowed to have her–

  He'd trade his guns to have her–

  He'd wear a star to have her–

  The outlaw swore to God above."

  Cass's stare locked with hers. Sapphire flames blazed a path to her soul. In a heartbeat, she was transported back to her seedy sweatbox of a bedroom above Dodge City's infamous Long Branch Saloon. But she was laughing and snuggling, feeling safe, sated, and cherished in Cass's arms.

  She tore her gaze from the primal calling in her lover's stare.

  "So tell me," he said huskily, "how does Lucifire's ballad end?"

  "You don't remember?" She couldn't quite keep the sting from her tone. "He rides away and never looks back. And neither does she."

  A muscle ticked in Cass's jaw.

  "Right."

  He seemed to lose all interest in Randie's singing. Tossing aside his smoke, he rubbed out the tip with his boot. His fancy, Mexican-style spurs jingled above the poignant sighing of the violins.

  "So."
He hooked his thumbs over his waistband. "What do you know about Karl Dietrich and the shenanigans going on around this place?"

  Alarm bells went off in Sadie's head. Cass's suspicions were way too close for comfort. "Care to be more specific?" she hedged.

  "I hear Dietrich won the joint last week. And now he's making trouble for my friends."

  "Friends like Randie? Or friends who hired your guns?"

  "What difference does it make? Unless you're in cahoots with him."

  "Honestly." She mustered a provocative tone—one of her best diversions. "You make love sound so... illegal."

  He snorted. "The only thing you're in love with is Dietrich's bank account."

  "Sour grapes, darling?"

  "Maybe." He folded his arms across his chest. "Or maybe you're too full of piss and vinegar to admit that throwing in your lot with Dietrich was a mistake. Half the whores in this establishment are gunning for him. The other half are gunning for you."

  "Occupational hazard."

  His brow furrowed. "C'mon, Sadie. This life isn't for you. You're 28 years old! How much longer do you think you can keep apes, like Dietrich, happy? Quit whoring around while you still can. Find yourself a decent husband. Settle down. Raise a passel of kids."

  Her chest heaved at his presumption—and not just because he'd never committed himself to her.

  "Because I can still turn a man's head?" she asked with deceptive pleasantness.

  "Well sure. A fella would have to be dead not to notice you."

  "Lucky me. So many Johns. So little time."

  "I can't believe that's what you really want."

  "No? Because the greatest thing a woman should aspire to in life is becoming the obedient thrall of a husband, who, by law, can do whatever he likes to her property, her body, and her children?"

  "You know I never did cotton to the law."

  "And yet you want to enforce it. As a Ranger."

  His eyes flashed, a sure sign her barb had struck a nerve.

  "Don't go putting Rangers in the same category as tyrant-husbands. Rangers aren't even allowed to get married."

  "So now I'm supposed to believe you refuse to be roped into matrimony because you dream of a tin star?"