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

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Collie's eyes narrowed. At the age of 17, he already had a gunfighter's stare. The proof was unnerving. "What's it to you?"

  "Everything."

  She drew herself up to her full five-foot-eight-inches. She didn't give a damn what Collie thought of her, as long as he looked out for Cass.

  "Now go tell your boss a lady doesn't like to be ignored," she said with as much temerity as she could muster. Tonight, at least, she had to behave every bit like the whore Collie thought her to be. "Baron had his chance with me. So he'll have to do a lot better than a slap and a tickle if he wants me to spy for him on Rexford Sterne."

  Chapter 12

  Later that night, Cass stood in the woods across from Wilma's back fence, dodging moonlight and resisting the urge to light a smoke. Shadow sheathed him from his Stetson to his boots. He'd stuffed his pale gold hair beneath his hat; he'd readied his bandanna for the mission to come; and he'd discarded all reflective silver, including his buckle and spurs.

  He was planning to ransack another bedroom.

  When Collie had caught up with him, minutes before Act II, Cass ordered the boy to babysit Baron for the rest of the evening. But Collie hadn't been fooled by Cass's excuse—namely, that he had a sniper to catch. The boy guessed Cass was planning a showdown with Sadie.

  That's when Collie surprised him by blurting out the news: "Sadie said if I was really your friend, I'd get you out of Baron's organization before you get yourself hanged."

  "Oh, did she now?"

  "Why would she say a thing like that?"

  "Beats me."

  "Don't you think you should find out?" Collie demanded, looking troubled.

  "Don't you think you should mind your own business?"

  "Hell, you're such a pain in my ass, you are my business," Collie retorted. "'Sides. I'm tired of getting you off of murder charges, Snake Bait."

  "You're what?!"

  "You heard me," Collie said loftily. "I didn't ride all the way to Texas for a suntan. You promised me a Ranger badge. But the way I figure it, you screwed up so bad with Sterne, he's got us both blackballed for life."

  "Baron's going to fix that."

  "I don't trust Baron."

  "You don't trust anybody."

  "That's what helps me survive," Collie said flatly. "And speaking of surviving, Sadie offered to spy on Sterne—for a price. Maybe she's playing Baron and Sterne against each other. You're the only body in this town, who can see through that woman's lies. You need to find out what she's really up to, before she gets herself plugged."

  Cass blew out his breath. He hated when Collie was right.

  In any event, Cass had decided to search through Sadie's trunks. The ones Collie had found in the Confederate munitions cave beneath Wilma's kitchen.

  As autumn leaves eddied above the ten-foot cedar planks that circled Wilma's tool shed, Cass waited impatiently for a friendly cloud to gobble up the moon. It was Devil's Eve, so he figured a party was underway at the brothel. No doubt every bouncer on the property was on alert for pranksters. He'd already seen a pair of Sid's deputies trot down the street, shotguns in hand, scanning the shadows for mischief-minded youths.

  As the sky finally dimmed and the moon disappeared, Cass dragged his bandanna over his nose.

  Time to make my own mischief.

  With the stealth of his coyote namesake, he passed through cedar needles and thorn scrub, crossed the crackling grasses of the thirsty yard, and skirted the parlor window, where Cotton entertained himself by sharpening a 10-inch blade. No doubt the spinning whetstone was the Cajun's way of discouraging vandals.

  By the time the racing cloud had thinned, allowing a few silver moonbeams to poke through the night, Cass had picked the lock on Wilma's gate and slipped inside the protective darkness of her tool shed. The smell of compost, chiefly potato skins and pumpkin guts, made his nose wrinkle. He let his eyes adjust to the moonlight, stabbing through the chinks in the roof.

  Careful not to cause a resounding crash, he avoided the clutter of shovels and axes as he tiptoed across straw to reach the trap door in the northwest corner. Just as Collie had described, the tunnel's entrance was cannily disguised beneath the long, brown drape of a gardener's table, piled high with flower pots, muddy gloves, herb bundles, and a handy lantern.

  A satisfied smile curved Cass's lips as he turned up the sputtering wick, raised the door, and poked his head into the blast of air that assailed his face.

  Stairs. With little, woman-sized shoe prints. If he sucked down a deep enough breath, he could detect a lingering trace of patchouli, Sadie's favorite perfume.

  Drawing a gun, he crept down the steps. The subterranean air was damp and refreshingly cool. He was almost sorry when, 50 paces later, he encountered another door. A rectangular peep hole was cut into the oak portal and set at the height of a man's eyes. Cass figured the hole had been used by the Confederates to identify friend from foe. Right now, yellow lantern light was pouring through the hole into the tunnel.

  Cass doused his own lamp to avoid discovery. He'd staked out the house long enough to know Gator was manning the brothel's backdoor, and Cotton was stationed at the front entrance. Nevertheless, things could have changed in the six minutes he'd walked through the tunnel. God only knew who might be stationed in the cave. The smell of bourbon was strong—either from a recent spill, a leaking keg, or a bawd secretly bent on a bender.

  Cass flattened himself against the wall to peer furtively through the hole. He couldn't see any humans among the crates and barrels. The space where Sadie had set up a rustic, folding bed and vanity was also clear.

  Relieved by the observation, Cass tugged the bandanna off his chin and starting wielding his lock pick.

  But when he shoved back the door on well-oiled hinges, he found himself tripping over a kid-sized broom, twined with black and red ribbons.

  "Careful, clumsy. I'm warding off witches."

  He nearly jumped out of his skin to hear that pipsqueak soprano with the Cajun accent. Only then did he spy sausage-style curls and smell the sweet scent of strawberry cologne. He cursed himself for being an idiot. How could he have missed the kid? She was sitting in plain sight on a barrel!

  He glanced tensely at baskets of potatoes, crates of apples, kegs of liquor, and crates of cosmetics, but he couldn't see any other pint-sized spies. Of course, that didn't mean this kid wouldn't start screaming for Cotton and his pigsticker.

  "Don't worry," the child said. "I don't want witches to know I'm here, either. That's why I was hiding."

  She sat cross-legged on her throne, dressed in a beaver hat, strings of pearls, gobs of bracelets, and a dusty silk chemise that looked suspiciously like a ruined version of Sadie's old, rose-patterned negligee. Cass tamped down a flare of irritation. There was no helping the fact that the kid had seen his face. That meant he'd have to waste time, making friends. And fast.

  Pasting on his Coyote grin, he mustered his notorious charm. "Well, you're doing a fine job, hoodwinking those witches, sugar."

  She giggled. "I'm not Sugar. Sugar has dark hair. My name's Jazi."

  "I reckon I owe you an apology, then."

  "Naw. That's okay." She shrugged. "I come here when I can't sleep. It's a lot cooler than the attic. 'Sides. It's Devil's Eve. Who can sleep?" She held out her paper sack, with its caramelized pecans. "Want a praline, Cass?"

  He choked down an oath to learn the kid knew his name. He wondered if she was the "neighbor child," who'd been eavesdropping on him and Gator.

  "Wilma said you wear guns to stop bad men."

  "She did, eh?" Cass frowned, still pondering the mystery of Jazi's origins. Why would Wilma take a neighbor's child to the Gala? Maybe the kid was related to one of Wilma's girls.

  "Can you stop the witch too?" Jazi blinked big, hopeful eyes at him.

  "Well, sure." Crossing the uneven limestone, he accepted her caramelized peace-offering. Mostly, he was stalling for time, since he had to invent some plausible excuse for being in the cave.<
br />
  She loosed a gusty sigh of relief. "That's good. I told Mama we shouldn't come to this town. On the day she got the letter, I told her the evil witch wrote it to trick her. Why don't grown-ups listen to kids?"

  "Hmm." He shot her a sideways glance. "I reckon they don't understand the dangers of witches, like you do."

  She nodded, looking sad. "Mama doesn't even believe what Wilma says about witches."

  Suddenly, Jazi started coughing. She seemed to have trouble catching her breath. Faintly alarmed, Cass patted her back until she recovered enough sensibility to retrieve the tin of Serenata's lemon pastilles under her thigh. She popped a couple of lozenges into her mouth and began sucking with great gusto.

  "Better?" Cass demanded.

  She nodded, but a few more moments passed before her labored breathing slowed, and she was able to speak again.

  "Can I tell you a secret?" she rasped.

  "Sure."

  She fidgeted. She seemed to be mustering her courage. "The real reason I can't sleep is because... Well, because I keep dreaming about the witch. Mama said I can hide in Wilma's attic until after the farmers convention is over. But that means we'll be here for Halloween! And Halloween is the most powerful time for witches! I'm scared she'll find me and do something awful!"

  Cass frowned. He didn't like anything to inspire so much fear in a child. Lowering to one knee before Jazi's barrel, he doffed his hat and took her hand. "Who's this witch that's got you so scared?"

  She worried her bottom lip. "I... I don't know. But I can see her in my nightmares. Her head's on fire, and she's got bloody claws. She eats souls, and she makes folks sick with bad medicine."

  "That sounds like a terrible nightmare, all right," Cass commiserated. "But honey, nightmares aren't real."

  "I know what I saw!" Jazi snatched her hand away. "Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it's not real!"

  "I meant no offense," he soothed, chagrinned by the tears glistening in her eyes. "So this witch was doing bad things, huh? Was she hurting people you know?"

  She nodded vigorously, the beaver hat plunking to the bridge of her nose. "She hurts you, and Collie, and maybe even Vandy!"

  "Hmm." He darted her a sideways look. He wasn't terribly concerned about witches. To his way of thinking, they were women, and he'd been wrapping women around his little finger ever since he'd hit puberty.

  He decided to change the subject. "So you know Collie, huh? How'd that happen?"

  Sneezing now, thanks to the dust billowing off the critter on her head, she wiped the back of her hand across her nose. Cass solemnly offered her his neckerchief.

  "He comes here at night—" she stopped talking long enough to blow her nose "—and other times when he's thirsty."

  "Is that a fact?"

  "Yep. I like to meet him with sandwiches and apples, and pralines for Vandy. Kind of like a picnic. I don't think Collie gets to eat much during the day. You know, 'cause Vandy beats him to all the food."

  Cass did a masterful job of keeping a straight face.

  "Anyhow, me and Collie swore a pact. I told him I wouldn't rat him out for stealing Wilma's liquor if he tells me a bedtime story. So last night, he told me about moonshining. And the night before that, he told me how to pick a lock."

  Cass cleared his throat to disguise laughter. "So let me get this straight. Collie sneaks in here, steals Wilma's Wild Turkey, and tells you things that would raise every hair on your mama's head?"

  "Uh-huh." Beaming, Jazi returned Cass's soiled bandanna. "And someday, we're going to get married."

  Cass's grin turned lopsided as he imagined Collie ragged out in a bowtie and swallowtails. "Does Collie know about your wedding plans?"

  "Of course, silly! He said we'd walk down the aisle when ducks whistle. Won't that be a lovely wedding march?"

  Choking back laughter, Cass shoved his bandanna into his back pocket. "That sounds mighty fine, all right. But maybe I should talk to the rascal for you. Get him to speed things along. Otherwise, you might be waiting at the altar for a good, long spell."

  "Naw." Jazi popped another praline into her mouth. "Collie still needs some training around womenfolk. I figure I'll let you do the hard work while I'm growing up. After all, I've got my hands full with Mama. She thinks I should marry a banker. Or maybe a grocer." Jazi stuck out her tongue and made an unladylike sound. "Wouldn't that be the most boring life ever? Pinching pennies and squeezing melons?"

  Cass was trying so hard not to laugh, his eyes were swimming with tears. "You have a point."

  "But you can't tell Mama about my wedding plans! Promise?"

  "Cross my heart. We can swear a pinky oath to make it official."

  Jazi looked confused. "You can't swear a Pinkie oath. You're a boy."

  "Sure I can! Boys swear pinky oaths all the time."

  "But boys can't be Pinkies."

  He raised his eyebrows.

  "Lady Pinkerton agents," she emphasized, as if he were as dense as a slug of lead. "Why else would a woman own four sets of whiskers and a broach that sprays ink?"

  Cass was pretty sure he was gaping like a guppy. "You mean... "

  No. He shook his head, laughing a little at the notion. That's not possible. Womenfolk don't sign up to be undercover tin-stars!

  So why did Sadie's behavior suddenly make a whole lot of sense?

  Suddenly, Jazi jumped, as if a bee had stung her. "Uh-oh. I hear Mama calling. I have to go!"

  Launching into a frenzy of activity, she hopped off the crate, tore off her hat and gew-gaws, shrugged out of the silk remnant that had once been Sadie's nightgown, and shoved all this grown-up plunder inside her throne. Then she gathered her patched, blue calico above her knees and dashed for the kitchen stairs.

  "Be sure to blow out the lanterns, Cass," she called down in an urgent undertone. "Nobody wants another fire."

  Jazi blew him a kiss. A flash of impish dimples was his last glimpse of the child before she lowered the trapdoor and latched it over his head.

  For a long moment, he stood alone in that cavernous storage chamber, his mind spinning, his heart pounding hard enough to crack a rib. He couldn't believe he was seriously considering this lamebrain idea. But if Sadie really was a Pinkerton, then she had to have something that gave her immunity from prosecution. Something that would keep her safe from arrest if she fired a gun in the line of duty. No lawman worked without one.

  His sniper's eyes probed every shadow, corner, and cobweb before his gaze alighted once more on the vanity. Standing on toothpick-style legs, it was constructed of whitewashed pine and painted with pink and yellow butterflies. Gingerbread frou-frou framed its beveled mirror, and the drawers were dominated by daisy-shaped knobs. The contraption looked like something out of a wealthy schoolgirl's nursery. It was the antithesis of anything Sadie had ever owned and was ever likely to own, if given a choice.

  Acting on a hunch, he ripped off his gloves, grabbed a lantern, and crawled beneath the vanity's belly. Supple fingers, well-practiced in palming cards, picking locks, and other thieving skills, probed for concealed seams. The work was painstaking in such cramped quarters, but eventually, he was rewarded. He heard the click of metal and the rasp of sliding wood. Warily, he felt inside the secret compartment until he withdrew a thick and cumbersome envelope.

  Cass's hands shook as he opened what proved to be a letter of commission. Air whistled past his teeth as he rubbed the pad of his thumb over the crisp, white vellum. There was no mistaking the embossed insignia of the famous Chicago-based detective agency. It matched the polished, brass badge that accompanied the letter. Both were imprinted with the words, Sarah Jane Michelson—Sadie's given name.

  Chapter 13

  Cass knew.

  Sadie's heart beat a nervous little tattoo as she stood in the cave, staring at her outlaw lover's calling card.

  A 10-inch pigsticker, with an elk-handled grip, was buried in the frame of her vanity's mirror. The blade pierced one of her casino handbills—through
the nose, no less—and the following ransom note was scrawled in red lip paint across her face:

  Want to see your daddy's button again, tin-star? Then get your freckled hiney to Aquacia Bathhouse at midnight. Come alone, or you'll be sorry. P.S.

  She was forced to wrestle Cass's Bowie knife from the wood before she could turn the page and read his post script:

  You owe me $800. Don't make me come and get it.

  "You mean $400, swindler," she muttered, referencing their poker game. "And you owe me a new vanity!"

  She flung the knife and message into a drawer and slammed it closed. How Cass had learned about the cave wasn't clear, but he'd obviously searched the vanity. And since he'd been the one who'd taught her how to create a trick latch in the first place...

  Panic welled inside her. Dropping to her knees, she dove under the counter to inspect the sealing wax she'd affixed to a seam in the hidden drawer. It was broken, all right. After some frenzied pawing, she was able to unlatch the compartment and search its contents. To her relief, the badge and letter of commission were still in place.

  Reprobate. Now she knew how Cass had been spending his time since intermission!

  But Cass wasn't the only one who'd left the event early. Baron and Collie had, too. She couldn't help but wonder if the boy had relayed her message to the senator. She'd waited futilely for Baron to wade through the sea of admirers, mobbing her dressing room. Finally, after shooing the lovelorn from her quarters, she'd dragged on trousers and sneaked out the backstage door to update Wilma about Baron.

  Not that there's anything to tell, she thought irritably.

  The furtive creak of stairs made her jump. Like a gun-slinging veteran, she grabbed for her pocket pistol.

  Another heartbeat passed before her eyes discerned the shadowy, female figure with bottled red hair. The bawd was standing on the third step beneath the kitchen landing, her voluptuous length sheathed in a slinky, black negligee.

  "Poor Cassie." Her voyeur tsked. "Talking to herself. That's the first sign of madness, you know."