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

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Rex's gun-metal gray eyes warmed with approval as they touched Wilma's face. "You can thank our anonymous tipster for luring Baron out of hiding with that slogan."

  Wilma's cheeks turned pink with pleasure.

  Sadie arched an eyebrow. Wilma never blushed.

  "Mr. Perkins may have scooped the Austin Statesman with your campaign announcement," Wilma warned the Ranger, "but he's no man's fool. And neither is Baron. Few men who know you will believe you're content to retire from the force."

  "I've been choking down injury pay for close to five months. I don't see why anyone would think there's much difference between pushing paper as a bureaucrat and a senator."

  "The point, mon ami, is that you are unaccustomed to undercover work. You do not lie with great credibility."

  Rex grimaced over his coffee cup. The dainty porcelain looked in dire peril from such a manly fist. "I like to think my reputation for integrity lent credibility to that cock-and-bull story in last week's Dispatch.

  "In any event, my farewell speech—and Governor Ireland's trumped up response—were reprinted in some form by every newspaper in every major city. Most folks will believe anything they read."

  "Baron sure did," Sadie said, relishing the beginning of the end of Senator Scum Bucket's political career.

  "Hmm."

  A forkful of gingerbread halted half way to Sadie's mouth. "Hmm?" she repeated archly.

  Rex sipped his coffee. He didn't look like a man who was contemplating victory.

  "What?" she demanded.

  Wilma cleared her throat. "There have been... complications, chere."

  "Complications?" Sadie narrowed her eyes. "What kind of complications?"

  Rex and Wilma locked stares.

  Fidgeting, Wilma looked away first.

  "I got word last night that Cassidy's murder warrant was cancelled," Rex said grimly. "Courtesy of Baron's attorney, who got him a trial and a not-guilty verdict in under three days. My hunch is, Cassidy's working for Baron now. And that means, he'll be accompanying Baron and Mrs. Westerfield to Lampasas. To keep vigilante grangers at bay."

  Good God. Cass is Baron's regulator?

  Rex was posing as bait for one of Baron's contract hits. But this plan had just taken a frightening turn. Cass was the only gunfighter still at-large in Texas, who could possibly draw faster than the Ranger.

  Suddenly, Sadie didn't feel like eating. She lowered her fork to her plate.

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the table, broken only by the trilling of a mockingbird. She could feel Rex's frank, assessing gaze on her face like the heat of the Texas sun. He clearly expected her loyalties to be torn, and the knowledge rankled.

  Rex was more than her Ranger liaison. From the first night they'd met, four years ago in Dodge, he'd displayed a protective instinct toward her. She'd never understood why, and she'd resisted his friendship with a great deal of asperity at first, even though he'd known her mother.

  Considering all her reasons to hate tin-stars, including the sex acts that Dodge City lawmen used to coerce her to perform for her "protection," the fact that she'd allowed Rex into her confidence said volumes about his character. Until she'd met him, she'd never believed she could trust a lawman. Never once during their acquaintance had Rex propositioned her. Sadie had sometimes wondered at her ally's restraint, but eventually, she'd come to accept his courtesies as an indelible trait of a southern gentleman's good breeding.

  Squaring her jaw, she forced herself to withstand the lawman's probing stare. "Anything else I should know?"

  Rex reached inside the breast pocket of his frockcoat and withdrew what, at first glance, appeared to be an unmarked envelope. When he slid it under her saucer, she spied the embossed insignia of the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe Railroad on the flap.

  "It's time you left town," he said gruffly. "Started working a new case."

  She felt her temperature rise. She was a Pinkerton, by God, not some hare-brained ninny who swooned over studs in spurs!

  Apparently, she still had to prove this fact where Cass was concerned. Rex had accused her of not being forthright about the young outlaw. He'd learned that Cass had entered the Satin Siren 20 minutes before it got torched. In Rex's estimation, that made Cass a prime suspect in her attempted murder.

  But lots of people had entered the casino a half hour before it burned to the ground, Sadie thought. The Pinkertons had found no evidence to implicate Cass in the arson. In fact, he'd been playing faro (and griping about redheads) in a casino full of witnesses. His alibi was irrefutable.

  Secretly relieved by this knowledge, she ignored Rex's train ticket and reached for her coffee cup. "You don't run at the first sign of trouble, and neither do I."

  Rex drilled her with his no-nonsense glare. "The minute Cassidy learns you survived that fire, he'll come looking for you. He made a nuisance of himself with the arson investigators, and he spouted off so many times to Galveston Daily News reporters, they developed a keen interest in his allegations—namely, that Karl Dietrich was an insurance swindler. Do I have to remind you, Pinkerton was forced to reassign your colleague?"

  And send him to Denver, Sadie thought smugly. Cass did me a favor.

  "If Cass is working for Baron," she argued, "he'll be my best entrée into Baron's organization."

  "Cassidy can't keep his mouth shut, drunk or sober."

  "About what? He doesn't know I'm a Pinkerton."

  "He sure as hell knows you're not Chantelle O'Leary!"

  Sadie sipped coffee before replacing the cup in her saucer. "Give me some credit, Rex. Danger and death threats come with my badge. Cass knows singers take stage names. If he asks me why I'm so eager to know Baron, I'll tell him I'm looking for a wealthy patron. Cass has no claim on me. I made it clear in Galveston we're through. Now get that train ticket out of my face. I don't report to you."

  A muscle ticked in Rex's jaw.

  Wilma broke the tension with a chuckle. Reaching across the table, she retrieved the envelope. "I would say I hate to tell you so, mon ami. But then, I'd be lying." She winked at Rex. "I'll take this nuisance off your hands, and consider us even."

  "Wait a minute." Sadie shot a withering glare at her old friend. "You two had a wager?"

  As discreet as Wilma was, she'd never tried to hide the fact that Cass used to come to her bed in Dodge, during the days when he'd been green enough to learn something. Wilma had originated his Rebel Rutter legend. Her joke had spread like wildfire, mostly because Cass enjoyed living up to his fame.

  "Did you bet against me or Cass?" Sadie demanded in wounded tones.

  "My bet was against Baron."

  Grinning like the Cheshire cat, Wilma slipped the ticket into her bodice. "Now then. Let us discuss more important matters, like a new paste for your chestnut sideburns. And the code name you will use, when you communicate with Rex..."

  * * *

  One Week Later

  Lampasas, TX

  "Well, if it isn't the sweetest little rosebud—"

  "Shut-up."

  Cass smirked. Hidden by silver sage bushes on the alley side of the swanky Globe Hotel, he craned back his head to watch Collie in a third story window. The kid's ludicrous widow weeds and four-foot mourning veil made him look like a grandma-lumberjack. He was pushing Sterne's darkened casement higher to lower a rope.

  "Did you remember to shave?" Cass demanded, sotto voce. "'Cause when we make our getaway, folks in the lobby'll think—"

  "Still yakking."

  Cass snickered. After riding for a year with the Prince of Lock Picks, Cass was used to Collie's moods, but the boy was more surly than usual, thanks to his pet. Vandy had stolen a trout from the hotel's horrified, French chef and had broken $200 worth of crystal while fleeing out the window. Until Baron "fixed" matters with the manager, Collie was forbidden on the property. He'd been forced to concoct a disguise.

  "What did you stuff inside your corset? Watermelons?"

  "You gonna climb?" Collie count
ered in murderous tones.

  "Well, I don't know. You gonna make it worth my while, sweetheart?"

  "How 'bout I give you a shiner?"

  Cass chuckled.

  The rope finally swished within reach. He planted his boots on the limestone. To any insomniac, who happened to be peering through his shutters, Cass suspected his all-black attire would make him look like an enormous spider, crawling up the moon-splashed stone. To be caught in the night's cosmic spotlight would have strained the nerves of any self-respecting footpad.

  But not Cass. Not anymore.

  After Sadie had died, he'd started taking wilder, ever crazier risks. Cheating the devil, that had become Cass's way of coping with guilt. Tonight, he was actually hoping to run into Rexford Sterne. Ever since that pretentious, Scotch-drinking prick had stolen Sadie from his arms four years ago in Dodge, Cass had wanted revenge.

  Now Baron had reason to believe Sterne's sudden retirement from the Ranger Force had been a cover up for misappropriation of funds. Everybody knew that Sterne, who'd grown up on a cotton plantation, had a soft spot for sodbusters. Since Ranger pay was notoriously poor, Baron suspected Sterne had been siphoning taxpayer money until he could get sufficient backing from the Farmers Alliance to fund his election campaign.

  Cass's smile was smug. No one wanted more than he did to find evidence that Sterne had tarnished the Ranger badge.

  Now I have something to live for.

  Hauling himself over his enemy's window sill, Cass began to drag the rope back up the wall. "How much time do we have?"

  "Tito's good at smashing, not yakking."

  "That's why I sent Poppy as back up."

  At the mention of Baron's wife, Collie screwed up his face like he'd choked down castor oil. "She'll make Sterne run for the nearest saloon, that's certain."

  "Works for me."

  Cass tugged the bandanna off his face. His eyes swept over oblong shapes, like a bed and a shaving stand, while his nose singled out lemon-balm hair tonic and something more ominous: sulfur. "You been burning powder?" he demanded, his right hand straying to his trigger guard.

  "I didn't shoot nobody, if that's what you mean."

  "Tarnation, boy! You're supposed to be a girl. Girls don't fire guns while they're wearing widow's weeds! You want to wake every dang body in this hotel?"

  "A coyote was chasing my coon!"

  Cass groaned, spying the hump-with-a-tail that had nested on Sterne's pillow and was happily gnawing his badger-hair shaving brush. Sometimes, Cass didn't know which was the bigger liability: the kid or his coon.

  They began ransacking the room, tossing chair cushions, dumping drawers, and turning the mattress. Cass rummaged through the campaign propaganda in Sterne's smaller traveling trunk, while Collie pawed through the change of clothing in the larger portmanteau. Vandy proved his worth by galloping merrily around the chaos with Sterne's underwear on his head.

  "I hate politics," Collie grumbled, shaking out a box of red, white, and blue ribbons.

  "You hate following orders," Cass corrected him.

  "And you don't?"

  "Listen here, smartass. I've been trying to keep you from screwing up the way I did and living your life on the run. 'Sides. A Ranger needs to care about folks. So he can protect them."

  "Caring is your problem, Snake Bait. You got your head so messed up over that lying little snitch—"

  "Don't be speaking ill of my Sadie!"

  Collie sighed and shook his head. "Ten minutes before that brothel fire, all you could talk about was how she sold you out to the law."

  "Yeah?" Cass squared his jaw. "Well, you shouldn't speak ill of the dead. Unless the corpse is Sterne's," he added darkly, rummaging through the trash. "Considering how he carried on with Sadie in Dodge, you'd think Sterne would have cared how she died. But as far as I can tell, the Rangers didn't lift a finger to stop Dietrich from fleeing town. He disappeared as thoroughly as a shadow at high noon."

  Collie grunted. "I got one word for you: Pendleton."

  "What about Pendleton?"

  "The way I see it, Dietrich was just a goon, doing the heavy lifting. Pendleton was the brains behind the insurance swindle."

  Cass snorted. "How do you figure that, Kid Detective?"

  "Remember that nimrod sodbuster? The one we first saw on Post Office Street? He was drinking cherry fizzy pop. That's Pendleton's favorite."

  "Wait a minute." Cass frowned. "You got a good look at that granger, and you're only saying so now?"

  "Not a good look. Hell, he was wearing a porcupine on his face! But under all those bristly whiskers, he was the same size and weight as Pendleton. My guess is, Pendleton disguised himself so he could watch Dietrich and Randie carry out his plan."

  "Aren't you forgetting something? Baron signed his name to an affidavit, giving Randie her alibi."

  "Oh, right. Like Randie was really pouring Baron a drink in that back room."

  "What Randie and Baron were doing at the time of the explosion is irrelevant. They gave each other alibis. And Pendleton was asleep in his hotel."

  "So he says," Collie said snidely. "But that ain't much of an alibi."

  "Isn't much of an alibi."

  "That's what I said!"

  Cass rolled his eyes, mostly at Collie's grammar.

  Pendleton was a tad Puritanical, true, but Cass couldn't picture the fussbudget burning a cathouse to the ground just because he disapproved of lechery. Pendleton got paid plenty to manage Baron's books. Considering the way he pinched pennies, he'd probably accrued a small fortune in some bank account. With all that money, why would Pendleton risk a capital murder charge to burn an occupied building?

  "Fess up, Collie. The only reason you suspect Pendleton of arson is because he accused Vandy of stealing his pocket watch last night."

  "Shows you how much you know." Collie hiked his chin. "I've always suspected Pendleton. And coons like shiny things. Vandy was only doing what comes natural."

  "You mean what comes natural in the wild." Cass smirked, recalling the uproar at Baron's ranch. Vandy, masked rascal that he was, had dunked Pendleton's heirloom timepiece in Poppy's bathtub—while she was in it.

  "Wanting Pendleton to be an insurance swindler doesn't mean he is one," Cass reminded the kid. "Pendleton has been managing Baron's business affairs for 20 years. His record's as lily-white as that milk potion he keeps rubbing into his hands."

  "Big deal. He just hasn't been caught yet. I'll bet Baron's attorney is part of the conspiracy. Poppy too."

  "Tarnation, boy! Do you trust anybody?"

  "Nope."

  Cass grabbed Sterne's fancy, silver flask. He'd intended to throw it at the kid until he realized the flask was a quarter full.

  Well, damn.

  Cass screwed off the lid.

  So this is what prissy scotch smells like?

  He gulped the imported, Irish whisky like the White Trash he was, smiled with perverse pleasure, then hurled the flask at the kid.

  "Hey!" Collie caught the vessel with viper-fast reflexes. "You might have saved me some!"

  Cass belched and grinned. "Naw. Wouldn't want to undermine all that good religion you got while living with Sera and Doc Jones."

  "Bite me."

  Vandy, meanwhile, was gleefully tracking cigar ash all over the hotel's plush, Aubusson carpet.

  Cass muttered an oath. "Heel! Sit! Confound it. That varmint never listens to me."

  "'Course he doesn't listen to you. You don't speak his language. Candytuft," Collie barked at the coon.

  Instantly contrite, Vandy retreated under the bed, dropping his snout to his paws and raising beseeching eyes to his boy.

  "Stop being such a baby," Collie scolded.

  Vandy growled.

  "That's more like it," Collie growled back.

  "Lord aw'mighty," Cass groused. "Why can't you just say, 'lie down,' or 'play dead,' like normal folks?"

  "'Cause Vandy knows candytuft and grubroot."

  "Well, sure! Th
ose words sound like food!"

  The commands Collie had invented to control Vandy were supposed to be Kentucky wildflowers, but half the time, Collie's "secret coon code" sounded like gibberish to Cass. The kid claimed he'd concocted the cipher so Vandy wouldn't get tricked into becoming a hat. The truth was, Collie was the jealous type, who didn't want Vandy loving anyone more than him. Cass had learned the hard way: Don't come between Collie and his coon, and don't talk flowers around Vandy. Especially pansies. Pansies earned you a whole lot of fangs in the face.

  Planting his fists on his hips, Cass glowered at the coon's tracks, spreading out in all their circular paths of destruction. "Seems like you could've saved Vandy a whole lot of trouble if you'd just whitewashed the mirror with 'Cass and Collie were here.'"

  "You mean, Collie and Cass," the boy retorted, squatting to retrieve a mostly burned scrap of paper from Vandy's mouth. "Looks like he found something."

  "Yeah. An ashtray."

  "This isn't cig paper." Collie tilted the scrap to catch the moonlight. "There's a symbol here. Looks like a backwards seven with a boot. The words are mostly blacked out."

  Cass joined him by the window. "Let's see."

  Sure enough, a neatly lettered scrawl had been all but obliterated by Sterne's match. To Cass's mind, the remaining scrap looked like it had been part of the bottom, right-hand corner of the message: 'Trouble... arrived... meet here MN.' The 'MN' was probably shorthand for midnight. But the backwards seven reminded Cass of a musical symbol that Sadie used to write.

  "I think the seven is part of a signature," Cass said thoughtfully.

  Collie grunted. "A code name?"

  "Maybe. What time is it?"

  Collie glanced out the window, calculating by the position of the moon. "Midnight, I reckon."

  "Damn. If that rendezvous's tonight, Sterne's on his way to this room. We're out of time."

  Cass cracked open the hall door. He wanted to make sure no one would witness two vandals and a varmint hotfooting it down the hall.

  Gold velvet fleurs-de-lis decorated the rich, burgundy wallpaper, which shimmered in the flickers of the frosted sconces. The matching reds of the carpet amplified the illusion that he'd stepped inside the belly of a dragon. Or maybe a long furnace. The heat of Texas's ongoing drought was barely relieved by the languid breeze that stirred the draperies, framing the windows at each end of the corridor. It wasn't difficult for Cass to imagine himself headed down the road to Hell.