Damn Cass. She had to get him out of her system. But how could she end her attraction to him overnight, when four years of separation had failed to snuff out the spark?
That was the question plaguing her mind as she trudged through the park, to the woods, and finally located the secret tunnel which led to Wilma's boardinghouse. The brothel had been built over a cave, carved by a defunct river. Two decades earlier, Confederate engineers had altered the riverbed, so a mule could haul war-time supplies along a mine-cart track to a distant farm. Allan Pinkerton had secretly bought that farm on behalf of his operatives, and when construction of certain covert facilities was complete, Sadie hoped to help Wilma establish her training center there for Pinkies.
In the meantime, Wilma's cave was the perfect hiding place for Sadie to stash trunks bearing her more elaborate disguises—or so she'd thought. When she arrived at the secret chamber and unbolted its door, she surprised a two-legged mouse in a sea of light.
The child couldn't have been more than nine years old. She'd wedged herself between towering kegs of moonshine in the hopes she wouldn't be noticed. Clearly, the urchin had been rummaging through forbidden treasures. Blonde and sheepish, she huddled in the black lace of Sadie's favorite old negligee, accessorized with a string of Sadie's pearls and beaded slippers. Streaks of azure powder accented cornflower-blue eyes; great circles of rouge decorated the child's gaunt cheeks; and cherry-red paint had been smeared—crookedly—over bowlike lips.
To complete this comical picture, wilted daisies jutted from Sadie's most matronly beaver hat (for the days when only an old-woman disguise would do), and the kid's sausage-style ringlets bobbed beneath the net veil.
Sadie cleared her throat, keenly aware that the child wasn't the only one playing dress-up. She tugged her hat brim lower.
"Are you lost, little mouse?" she asked in her best imitation of a man's voice.
The child cocked her head, drawing tawny eyebrows together. "What's the matter? You got a frog in your throat?"
Just my luck. An urchin with attitude.
"Nothing's wrong with my throat," Sadie retorted.
The child giggled. "You sound like a burro with a head cold!"
Sadie choked at this assessment. "Does your mother know where you are?"
"I hope not." The kid grinned, crawling out of her hideout and dragging the negligee's hem through an eon's worth of filth. "Where'd you get your beard? Can I wear one?"
Sadie groaned to see the kid stumble into the lamplight, cobwebs sparkling all over the once pristine beaver fur. The child had a Cajun accent, much like Wilma's, and was wearing a gris-gris from her neck. The amulet could only mean one thing: Wilma was trying to protect the little beanpole.
"I don't think a beard would go with the pearls," Sadie said dryly, watching her negligee spill off the kid's scrawny shoulders. "Or with the dust." She arched an eyebrow at the knees of the gown.
"Oops! Sorry." Hastily, the child knocked the worst of the grime from the silk, coughing behind her hand as dust rose up around her. "There. As good as new. Almost." The little charmer beamed, crowding her freckles together. "I'm Jazi. Well, actually I'm Jazlyn. Mama couldn't decide between Jasmine and Jocelyn, so she invented an even better name!"
"Does Grandma Wilma call you Jazlyn?" Sadie probed slyly.
Illuminated by the radiance of six kerosene lamps, Jazi traipsed over to the rickety vanity that Wilma had nagged Gator and Cotton to drag into the cave—along with Sadie's costume trunk, an accordion-like wheeler's cot, a no-frills wash stand, and a copper bath tub. The rest of the chamber was stacked head-high with kegs of liquor, crates of cigars, and various sundry items needed by bawds.
"Wilma's not my Nannan," Jazi supplied absently, studying her reflection as she tilted the beaver hat at varying angles beneath her daisies. "She's Mama's madam. Or at least, she used to be on Bourbon Street. Wilma calls me Boo."
The mystery deepens.
"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Jazi asked over her shoulder.
"Well, I don't know. How good are you at keeping secrets?"
Jazi's thin chest puffed out with pride. "The best."
"How can I be sure?"
"Well..." Jazi seemed to consider this question. "I never told anyone who really paid for my medicine when I was sick."
"Is that a fact?" Sadie edged closer, setting her lantern on the vanity table. She tugged a drooping sleeve back to the child's shoulder, releasing the sweet scent of strawberries. "Someone with plenty of money, huh?"
"If I told you that, it wouldn't be a secret!" Jazi countered triumphantly.
Their eyes met in the mirror. Sadie smiled.
"You got me there."
Jazi giggled and reached for a powder puff.
"You can call me Maisy."
"Maisy?" the child repeated uncertainly, the powder puff pausing half way to her nose. "You sure?"
"Uh-huh."
Jazi shrugged, making space so Sadie could fit on the bench beside her. "Mais well." Now she really did sound like Wilma. "Freckles are the worst, aren't they?" She was gazing wistfully at her reflection again. "Mama doesn't have freckles," she confided. "Not a single one! So she doesn't know how to hide them."
Removing the hat shadowing her face, Sadie let Jazi gaze fully at her complexion. "Now why would you want to hide something that makes you so beautiful?"
Jazi's mouth formed a perfect "O" as she craned back her head to stare at the pesky red dots on Sadie's nose. Naturally, the beaver hat slipped, plunking down to block her view.
"Hey!" She shoved the beaver back to her brow, leaving powdery fingerprints on the fur.
To her amazement, Sadie realized she didn't care about her soiled hat. She wasn't sure why, since her headgear and ruined gown had cost a small fortune, and she had to justify the purchase of every new gewgaw to Pinkerton.
Maybe the part of her that mourned her drowned twin, Maisy, liked the idea of playing dress-up with Jazi.
Or maybe a desperate, lonely side of her wanted to relive the innocence she'd lost after Daddy had been lynched as a Yankee spy.
Of course, Sadie hadn't known about Roarke Michelson's secret work as a Pinkerton at the time. Back in '68, all she'd known was that she and Mama had become pariahs in a very small town. Tossed into the gutter—presumably for lack of coin—13-year-old Sadie had tried to find lodging for her bereaved mother. Trudging the streets during a torrential rain, she'd been rejected at boardinghouse after boardinghouse, until she'd plowed headlong into Pilot Grove's new marshal.
The tin-star had seemed like a friend, despite his northern sympathies. He'd offered her and Mama shelter in his hayloft, mainly because he'd liked the sight of Sadie's shivering curves beneath her sodden gown.
But the grunting pig had soon grown bored with humping a child who hadn't known the first thing about pleasing a man. Within the week, he'd abandoned Sadie and her grief-shattered mother on a brothel doorstep. Two days later, unable to face the shame, Mama had thrown herself out a third-story window.
Sadie hardened her jaw at the memory.
Now as she sat looking at the freckle-faced innocent sitting beside her, a child who'd been borne to a whore, and who'd probably wind up becoming a whore, Sadie's inner Tigress roared. She wanted to protect this impish cub from the desperate life prostitutes were forced to live. She couldn't help but wonder if the gris-gris Wilma had fashioned for Jazi was to keep away men who preyed on children for sex.
As if on cue, a light bloomed overhead, and the wooden stairs shuddered, sloughing off dust. Sadie spied the curly dark hair of Wilma as the brothel's proprietess descended, holding her lantern overhead and illuminating the sweating limestone of the cave's walls.
"Boo! Where you at? What did I tell you happens to petite gagas, eh?"
Jazi squirmed at Wilma's scolding.
A rapid-fire discussion ensued. Thanks to Sadie's study of arias written by Bizet, Offenbach, and Berlioz, she was able to follow bits and pieces of the argument. But
Cajun French, as it turned out, was virtually unrecognizable as a by-product of the European language that Sadie's music tutor had taught her.
"Allons!" Wilma ordered in a tone that would not be disobeyed.
A sheepish Jazi hastily shed Sadie's clothes, kicking off the slippers and thrusting the hat into her hands.
Wilma was tapping her toe under the scandalously high slit of her tangerine taffeta. "And the gewgaws. Or you'll be making do-do without supper."
Sadie hid her smile. To make do-do was a term she did understand. In Cajun, it meant to go to sleep.
Sulking, Jazi surrendered the pearl necklace, a matching bracelet, and (to Sadie's amusement) a red satin garter. Then she scampered up the stairs in her own faded, thrice-turned calico, ducking Wilma's lantern and fleeing for the upper stories.
Affection crept across the Mambo's exotic features as she watched Jazi's petticoats flounce out of sight. "Even a house as fancy as this one is no place for the chirens," Wilma said wistfully. "I told Mira to leave Jazi with the nuns. But she dotes on the child. Wouldn't hear of being separated."
"And Mira would be—?"
"A protégé. She arrived yesterday afternoon. Between the tourists, the convalescents, and the Farmers Alliance, the hotels have no vacancy. I could not turn her away. Not with a sick child."
Sadie frowned. "Jazi looked healthy to me."
"And yet her cough lingers. From a bout with swamp fever last spring. She does not yet have the stamina to run and play, like other children. I fear her lungs are scarred. But she makes up for it in other ways. Jazi is wiser than her years. She has the sight."
"That would explain how she bypassed the lock," Sadie said dryly.
"Ca va. I shall speak to her. Boo understands the importance of secrets. You need not worry. Mira won't be staying here for long.
"Now then, chere." Wilma's cagey brown eyes locked with hers. "Why are you here? Were you not planning a seduction tonight?"
Sadie grimaced. Admitting Cass had foiled her plans would only prove to Rex and Wilma that she couldn't handle her ex-lover. Sadie didn't need that headache.
"Change of plans," she answered breezily.
"Oh?"
Wilma crossed the uneven limestone in a graceful strut, one which Sadie knew took hours to master, even though Wilma made it look as natural as breathing. When the Cajun finally halted beside the vanity, she arched a finely brushed eyebrow at Sadie's reflection. "Did you lose something?"
Sadie's neck heated at the reminder. Wrenching open the top drawer, she displayed her tiny, leather pouch of reeking herbs. "I... uh, just took off the gris-gris. There it is. See? Evil Spirits don't stand a chance around me."
"You are a pitiful liar."
"Wilma, be reasonable. I can't seduce Baron smelling like garlic!"
"Rosemary," she retorted testily. "And unless your snake senator has started rutting with bearded grangers, you've been nowhere near his bed tonight. You know the rules of my house. Put on the gris-gris, or it's back to the hotel with you."
Sadie scowled, draping the leather cord over her head. "What I need is a gris-gris full of echinacea," she grumbled. "And maybe some chamomile. That way, I'll have the ingredients of a nice tea to ward off a cold."
"You bear a death mark. How can you jest?"
"Humor keeps me sane."
The truth was, Sadie had damned near peed her pants the night she'd fled Galveston and arrived in Lampasas. Wilma had greeted her at the boardinghouse door with a shriek, lots of arcane gestures, and entreaties to Loa Eshu to protect her and the girls in her care. Apparently, Wilma had glimpsed the personification of Asrael, the Angel of Death, peering over Sadie's shoulder.
"Can we change the topic to something else?" Sadie said irritably. "Anything else?"
"Oui." Wilma propped her derriere on the vanity top. "How goes the battle for the button?"
Sadie shot her friend an exasperated look. "Any topic except him."
Wilma chuckled. "You always were a sore loser."
Sadie scowled. Letting Cass win at poker was another reason to be pissed at herself. "A temporary setback, I assure you. Cass won the battle, not the war."
"Spoken like Aphrodite in Ares's arms."
"Don't start."
"Cass is dynamite. You are fire. Attraction is natural."
"Attraction is stupid." Sadie began the unpleasant task of gluing putty on her nose.
"Mais well." Wilma's lips twitched. "Take Cass to gogo, and the sizzle will fizzle. In time. Maybe."
Gogo, as the Cajun called it, was the last thing Sadie should be doing with Cass. "And when Baron finally takes the bait, how do I explain I'm too busy for a rut, because his bodyguard is in my bed?"
"You say, 'You have competition, Pig Senator. Please me if you can.'"
It was Sadie's turn to fight a smile. "Now I see why you are the illustrious Madam, and I am merely the bawd."
"Not so mere, chere." The Cajun's dark eyes were much too insightful for Sadie's peace of mind. "Since you plan to sleep here tonight, I can only assume your stage shimmies failed to entice the right man?"
"Abysmally."
"It is said, the old bull is ailing."
"I'm starting to think the old bull's a steer. No wonder his wife doesn't sleep with him."
"Mrs. Westerfield has turned shrew. She blames Baron for her miscarriages. What man could desire such a woman?"
Sadie frowned. "You're defending that butcher?"
"Non. But one must understand one's enemy in order to defeat him."
"Has he ever walked through your door since coming to Lampasas?"
Wilma shook her head. "And yet, he is getting his satisfaction somewhere. Only a monk can go without—and sometimes, not even then."
Thoughtfully, Sadie drummed her fingers on the vanity. "So what you're saying is, I have competition."
"A secret lover, perhaps. A mistress he hides from his wife."
"Great. Just what I need. Another complication."
Wilma tapped her lips, a far-away look stealing into her eyes. "To compete with such a rival, you will need a new weapon in your arsenal of love."
Sadie gazed critically at her reflection, trying to guess what Wilma meant. The woman had an uncanny way of intuiting future events. It was downright spooky. "Another wig?"
"No, chere. It is time to introduce a new player to the game. A worthy opponent. One who makes our pig of a senator rise to the challenge."
Sadie arched an eyebrow. "I'm listening."
"Senator Swine does not see you as you wish to be seen, so during your gala performance on Devil's Eve, let us show him what he's missing. Through the eyes of his political nemesis."
Sadie's breath hitched. "You mean Rex?"
"Mais oui. Cass already believes you and Rex are lovers. He'll give the lie credence, should Baron become skeptical."
Sadie's heart kicked at this idea. It was brilliant, like all of Wilma's ideas. But was the cost too high?
Cass would never forgive her for "finally admitting," after all these years, that she'd been having an affair with Rex. More to the point, matters between Cass and Rex could escalate to lethal proportions.
As if guessing her concern, Wilma fixed her with a stern stare. "Do you or do you not want to see Baron pay for his crimes?"
"I do, but—"
"Then you must remember why you took this assignment. Baron must be stopped. He hides behind the trappings of his office, ordering the murder of innocent farmers, while other men—like your Cass—go to the gallows in his stead."
Sadie fidgeted. Everything Wilma had said was true.
"I just can't bear the thought of a high-noon showdown, that's all. Especially over me."
Wilma patted her shoulder. "If anyone can handle Cass's guns, it's mon po po."
"Your po po?" Sadie hiked an eyebrow.
Wilma blushed prettily. "Uh... policeman."
"Right." Sadie cleared her throat. Like Rex, Wilma was scrupulously discrete about her private life. Bu
t a body would have to be blind not to see how Wilma's eyes sparkled whenever Rex entered the room—and vice versa. Sadie was delighted they'd found each other. She just hoped their affair survived this mission.
"What if Rex doesn't... can't... well, you know." Sadie blew out her breath. "Wilma, he just doesn't think of me that way!"
Wilma looked amused. "You are capable of holding the man's hand, are you not? And stroking his cheek?"
"I'm not worried about my theatrics. Rex is the straight-laced son of virtue."
Wilma chuckled, as if at a private joke. "Have faith, chere. A mistress knows all her lover's secrets. Baron will want to know about Rex's campaign. He'll take the bait. You'll see."
Sadie bit her lip, envisioning an enraged Lucifire with blazing six-shooters.
That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
As if the matter was settled, Wilma rose from her perch and reached for her lantern. "I must return to my sodbusters, chere. They are clamoring for more liquor. Shall I arrange your invitation to a poker game?"
Sadie sighed, inspecting her pesky sideburns for signs of peeling. "You might as well. Some sodbuster in this town must know who took potshots at Baron. I'm hoping the sniper can lead us to a farmer with a big enough grudge, that he'll testify against Baron."
"Bien. I shall have Gator watch over you."
Wilma turned to go. A moment later, the madam's spiky heels stopped clicking on the limestone. "Qui c'est q'ca?"
Sadie glanced over her shoulder. Wilma had raised her lantern and was frowning at her stacks of contraband.
"What's the matter?"
"Perhaps nothing. It is just that I thought this crate of bourbon was under the Glenmorangie. To make the scotch easier to access when mon po po is in the house."
Wilma set her lamp on a pickle barrel and lifted the crate's lid. It was stamped with black block letters that read, Ripy Brothers Distillery. Tyrone, Kentucky.
Sadie crossed to Wilma's side. "You're worried. Should I be?"
"I do not think so..." But the madam's brow remained furrowed. "Perhaps I did not tally the bourbon correctly. I shall have Cotton re-inventory the Wild Turkey in the morning."
Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) Page 14
