"Haven't you heard a word I've said?" Sadie countered impatiently. "Hank's not going to kill his golden goose!"
"Hank was the sniper on the roof!"
"Then Hank's extorting Baron for putting him on that roof!"
"Can't you hear how crazy that sounds?"
Sadie wanted to shake him. "You weren't in the bathhouse. You didn't hear their argument. You're going to have to trust my judgment."
"Your judgment? Hell, you've been gunning for Baron ever since Galveston! You're so deep in Sterne's back pocket, you don't know which way is up. You'd do anything to save Sterne from a senate investigation—including seducing Baron right under his wife's nose! Wasn't that the original plan? Until I came along and threw a wrench in the works?"
She sucked in her breath.
His laughter was hollow. "You used to be a lot smarter, darlin'," he said bitterly. "A whole lot smarter than this."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you haven't left the whorehouse as far behind as you think."
Her hand lashed out. He caught it before it could strike his cheek.
For a long moment, they stood quivering, sucking down air, two predators ready to pounce. Thunder rumbled in the distance; lightning spat behind the crown of Cass's hat.
Finally, she yanked her wrist from his grasp.
The moon had dipped below the tree canopy. As much as Sadie would have liked to track Hank, she figured the task would be impossible now. If a storm really did unleash itself—rather than dumping the usual dry rain—then Hank would head back to town. It was only two miles away. On a night like Devil's Eve, he'd find plenty of mischief to entertain himself.
"Collie was in the bathhouse too," she bit out. "He can settle this argument."
"I'll be real interested to hear what Collie has to say."
Why would you take the word of some beardless whelp over mine!?
Cass whistled for Pancake, but she had no intention of getting cozy with her lover in his saddle. She turned on her heel and set a course for her mare.
Chapter 15
Sadie didn't speak a word during their eight-minute jog back to town. But that was fine by Cass. If she'd accused Baron of hiring contract killers another second longer, he might have stuffed his handkerchief in her mouth. Baron was the victim here! Hank Sharpe had broken out of jail—or he'd been miraculously paroled.
In either event, Cass didn't need much imagination to guess why Hank was in Lampasas: to seek revenge. Baron had kicked him off the ranch, and he'd stopped paying Hank in jail. So of course Hank was blackmailing Baron. Hank liked to torture folks right before he watched the light go out in their eyes. Extortion was just the beginning.
But Cass wasn't the only man familiar with Hank's history as Baron's hired hand. In fact, he was willing to wager that Pendleton knew more than he did. Recalling his conversation with Marisol, Cass wondered if Pendleton had been following Baron's order to pay Hank's extortion fee.
Or did Pendleton use his own money to hire Hank?
The latter possibility chilled Cass's blood. Baron trusted few men as thoroughly as he did Pendleton. The secretary knew every detail of Baron's ranching business, political funding, and campaign schedule. Pendleton could be as dangerous as Hank was. And if the two men were conspiring against Baron...
Cass's stomach roiled. He honestly didn't know if he could stop The Ventilator.
Eight years ago, on Baron's ranch, Cass had suspected Hank of pinning a theft on Lynx. When matters escalated, Cass had lost control of his tongue. Hank had demanded a high-noon showdown to "repair his honor."
Lynx had been horrified by the news. He'd threatened to confront Hank first—knowing he wouldn't survive the shootout—if Cass refused to flee Burnet County with him. So grudgingly, Cass had left the Rocking W. At the time, he'd blamed the Cherokee for making him look like a coward. But secretly, Cass had been afraid. He'd known Hank possessed the faster quickdraw and the steelier nerve. At 17, Cass hadn't been able to compete with The Ventilator.
At 25, Cass still didn't know if he was fast enough.
But he kept his tongue firmly between his teeth. He didn't confide his worries to Sadie. Nor did he confess his private vow to stop Hank or get killed trying.
At Western Avenue, when she wheeled her horse and left him choking on her dust, Cass figured she was heading for Sterne's hotel so she could warn him about Hank. Cass followed discreetly, until he was certain she got safely inside the Globe.
Then Cass spurred Pancake toward the Grand Park, one mile further west. He figured no matter what he asked Pendleton, the secretary would lie. So Cass's strategy was to question Collie. The boy might know where Hank had gone after leaving the bathhouse. With nothing but suspicion and circumstantial evidence to pin on Pendleton, Cass was disadvantaged. If he wanted Baron to believe his allegations, he'd have to find concrete proof. However, a fussbudget like Pendleton would have buried the evidence, and Cass didn't have time to search for it.
That's why Cass figured that neutralizing Hank was the quickest way to guarantee Baron's safety—at least for the night.
So Cass set off to question Collie. He expected to find the boy sucking down Wild Turkey outside the Westerfield's suite and grousing about having bodyguard duty on Devil's Eve. But Collie wasn't in the hotel's hall. Nor was he in the bedroom.
Cass frowned. No light spilled from the crack under the Westerfields' suite. Maybe Baron had dragged Collie off to one of the hotel's myriad gaming rooms. Considering the size of the grounds, Cass could have spent more than an hour, searching fruitlessly for Collie.
Feeling pressured for time, Cass abandoned his plan to confer with his sidekick. Mounting up again, he cantered the half-mile back to Third Street and Wilma's boarding house. He hoped Cotton or Gator would have news about The Ventilator.
But Cass's strategy changed again when he led Pancake into the brothel's livery. Sterne's dappled-gray Quarter Horse was snoozing in a stall. Like its rider, the gelding was legendary in these parts. Steel could run down any four-legged renegade in Texas. He had the spirit of a Comanche warrior and the stamina of a locomotive. He suffered no one to sit on his back except Sterne.
By comparison, Pancake was a big lovable moocher who didn't care who rode him, as long as a bag of oats was at the end of the journey.
Wistfully, Cass ran his hand over Steel's rump and received a snort for his impertinence. Collie and Baron were right: Cass needed to be more choosey about his horseflesh if he wanted to be a tin-star, whom outlaws feared.
That notion put the spurs to his already straining temper.
So Ranger Holier-Than-Thou is cheating on Sadie and dandying Wilma's bawds on his knee? Why doesn't that surprise me?
Cass's intent wasn't clear when he decided to confront Sterne. On the one hand, he was pragmatic enough to want Sterne's cool head, seasoned tracking skills, and legendary quickdraw on his side during a manhunt for The Ventilator. On the other hand, Cass was so full of piss and vinegar, he couldn't pass up this opportunity for his long-awaited reckoning with the man who'd ruined his life. The trouble was, Wilma prided herself on protecting her clientele. Nothing short of a crowbar could have pried Sterne's room number from Cotton's or Gator's mouth.
So Cass decided to sneak through a second-story window.
Breaking and entering was child's play for an outlaw of Cass's accomplishments. Tracking Sterne to the appropriate bedroom proved more challenging, but Cass eventually arrived at the ornately carved cherry wood of Wilma's boudoir door. When Sterne's laughter floated into the hall, Cass's hackles rose.
Stooping, he peeked through the keyhole. The room was well-lighted with tapers and gas lamps; even so, he couldn't see much from his angle, just that Sterne and Wilma were still clothed and Sterne had shed his gun belt. For what Cass had in mind, he didn't need to know more.
He rapped once and pushed inside.
Shock registered on Wilma's face. Her eyes flew from his scowl to his tethered .45s. When
she leaped to her feet, tangerine chiffon billowed around her olive skin like a tropical storm.
"Cass! What—"
"I have business with Sterne."
"How dare you come bursting through my—"
Cass yanked his buckle. His cartridge belt swung off his hips. He tossed it across a plump, wingback chair, and Wilma's sputtering paused. She darted anxious eyes toward Sterne.
The old Wolf stood beside a small table, littered with the remnants of a late-night repast. To his right could be glimpsed Wilma's towering, half-tester bed. Behind him was a silk dressing screen, depicting naked lovers, entangled in the throes of lust. The subject was fitting, considering how Sterne had stolen Sadie from his arms in Dodge.
Cass had never hidden the fact that he hated Sterne; what he did keep secret was how he envied him. The specter of Cass's dirt-poor, share-cropper heritage rose now to haunt him as he glowered at his rival. If the Yankees hadn't confiscated all Confederate holdings during the war, Cass figured that tonight, Sterne would be sipping Glenmorangie in a gilded parlor beneath a crystal chandelier and smoking a Cleopatra Federal cigar, infused with cognac.
Maybe there is such a thing as Divine Justice.
Sterne had shed his swallowtails, but not his satin vest, frilled shirt, or bowtie. Only his plain brown, Justin boots hinted that he'd once walked among Texicans with the power of a god and the badge of a Ranger.
A no-good, lying Ranger, Cass thought darkly when he spied Sterne's gun belt hanging from a brass peg beside Wilma's door. Sterne was embezzling money from the good citizens of Texas. He was a bigger crook than Cass had ever been!
"You know I forbid weapons in my house," Wilma scolded. She was shielding Sterne with her body. "And I know you pack a lot more than six-shooters."
"You also know I never miss," Cass snapped. "If I'd come here to ventilate him, you wouldn't even get creased in the crossfire."
"And I suspect Cassidy wouldn't have knocked on the door," Sterne said dryly. "It's all right, Wilma. You can leave."
"Absolutely not! I'm not letting you two smash furniture and bust heads."
"We'll settle our differences like civilized barbarians." Sterne reached behind her hip. "Over scotch."
"Keep your hands where I can see them," Cass warned. "I know she packs a derringer on her thigh."
Sterne hiked a graying eyebrow at this confession, but he didn't challenge it. Instead, he retrieved two glasses and a crystal decanter from Wilma's liquor cabinet.
Wilma glanced uneasily toward Cass's hips. Only then did he realize his hands were flexing over the holsters he no longer wore.
"Pour me a dram too," she told Sterne.
The Ranger's flinty stare locked with Cass's. "Does the lady need to share our whisky to keep you from firing that popgun up your sleeve?"
"I said I didn't come to ventilate you, old man."
Grunting, Sterne poured two fingers' worth of Glenmorangie into the clean glass. With his free hand, he waved Wilma toward the door.
"Go on. You've got Cassidy's word."
Wilma's chest heaved. She shot Cass a glare that promised all kinds of hell and retribution. "If you harm a splinter in this room, you'll rue your decision to burst through my door."
Cass didn't doubt Wilma's word. As a Mambo, she could make his life a waking nightmare. However, his quarrel wasn't with Wilma, so he nodded his consent.
The door whispered closed behind her.
Sterne was pouring another dram. "You don't like me, and I don't like you."
Cass sneered. "I can drink to that."
"Good." Sterne thumped a glass on the table.
Taking a seat, the Ranger sniffed his own scotch; put his palm over the glass rim; and swirled the contents around the bottom. Cass watched this hoity-toity drinking ritual with unabashed contempt.
"We're agreed on one other point," Sterne said, sipping his whisky.
"What's that?"
"We both want Sadie safe."
"So you let her become a Pinkerton?"
To his credit, Sterne managed his surprise without choking on his scotch. "So she confided in you."
"Hell no. I had to sniff, like a weasel, through every scrap of frippery she owns! Sadie's too damned stubborn to admit when she needs help. I found her badge."
Sterne looked troubled. "Then you know that brand of stubbornness can't be dissuaded. Sadie was determined to leave the whorehouse. She didn't think she was suited for marriage. She didn't believe she had the temperament to be a schoolmarm or a seamstress."
"There are plenty of other ways to leave the whorehouse! Jumping in front of bullets didn't have to make the list."
"Don't you think I tried to tell her that?" Sterne retorted. "Sadie wanted to prove her mettle. She wanted the opportunity to be respected, like Kate Warne."
"Who?"
"Outside the Pinkerton Agency, few folks know who Kate is," Sterne admitted. "She stopped an assassination attempt on President Lincoln before the war. She was an invaluable asset to the Union and one of Pinkerton's most resourceful agents. Unfortunately, she died of pneumonia a few years after General Lee surrendered at Appomattox."
Cass didn't know whether to scoff at this intelligence or be alarmed by it. Pinkerton had sent a woman into war? What the hell kind of monster was Sadie working for?!
Stalking closer, Cass planted his palms on the table and shoved his face into Sterne's. "Sadie doesn't need to prove her worth to me," he growled. "You think I don't know her story? She was robbed of her maidenhead by a tin-star. She got thrown in a whorehouse by a tin-star. Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson and others of their ilk extorted her for protection money in Dodge. Now you're trying to convince me she wants to be a tin-star? Hell, you aren't fit to wipe the muck off her shoes!"
Sterne's color was on the rise. He released a long, shuddering breath.
"I'm not arguing with you," he said quietly.
This easy victory was like a splash of kerosene on fire. Cass couldn't have reined in his tongue if he'd tried. "What kind of man lets his woman face killers to cover his lies? Or deludes her into thinking dodging bullets is romantic? What the hell kind of man are you, Sterne?"
The Ranger was uncommonly quiet. So quiet, Cass could hear the surging of his blood, the ticking of the wall-clock, the soughing of wind-blown branches beyond Wilma's shuttered windows.
"You love her," Sterne said.
"Of course I love her! She's the fire in my blood, the light in my soul! If I thought for a moment you were born for her, and she for you, then I'd step aside so you could marry her, and she'd be happy! But you're not the right man—"
"I agree."
The breath whistled past Cass's teeth. He'd been so pumped up to point out Sterne's failings, he couldn't let the argument rest so easily.
"You agree? Since when?"
Sterne stared at Cass's chest for a long moment, as if he were peering into his heart.
"Sit down, William."
"I'll sit when I'm good and ready!"
Sterne's smile was mirthless. "Am I to understand from all this caterwauling, you think Sadie's my lover?"
"Don't tell me you're going to deny it after that little performance at Hancock Park!"
"It was a performance. Nothing more."
"So you admit you've been coercing Sadie to do your dirty work—"
"Sadie has worn a badge for Allan Pinkerton for four years. If I thought she was working against her will, I would have put an end to the arrangement long before this."
Sterne's gaze didn't waver. No prevarication lurked in the lawman's manner. But Cass didn't want to believe him. Four years of hatred egged him on.
"Well, you and Sadie weren't performing back in Dodge. How many times did she sneak off to meet you at the Harvey House, eh?"
"I assure you, William. It would be quite impossible for me to have a sexual liaison with Sadie."
Cass sneered. "Bawds talk. The way I hear it, your equipment works just fine."
"That's reassuring,"
Sterne said dryly. "But the fact remains. Sadie is not my lover. Nor has she ever been."
Cass shook his head. Why Sterne would deny carrying on with Sadie, especially now, after his Ranger career was over and he was free to marry her, didn't make much sense. But Cass didn't let that fleeting doubt muzzle his mouth.
"You high-and-mighty Rangers think you rule the world. You think you can ride into any town, take any woman you want—"
"William," Sterne interrupted flatly, "Sadie's my daughter."
Cass wheezed. He couldn't have been more stunned than if Sterne had pulled a rattlesnake out of his holster. For an endless moment, Cass just stood there, gawking. Then his Coyote brain finally kicked into gear.
"No. That's not possible. Roarke Michelson—"
"—Was married to Sadie's mother at the time of our affair. I thought Meg was a widow."
Cass frowned. He was dangerously moved by Sterne's story, not because of anything the lawman had said, but because he'd allowed Cass an unexpected glimpse into his pain. Sterne's throat worked. His lips pursed. He averted his eyes and tossed back the rest of his scotch like any old White Trash. Faced with the proof of such anguish, Cass had trouble believing the notion he wanted to cherish most: that Sterne was a no-good rat-fink and a liar.
"Then Sadie should have told me—"
"Sadie doesn't know," Sterne said.
Holy crap!
At long last, the veil lifted from Cass's eyes.
For four years, he'd been blaming Sadie for an affair she'd never had. He'd walked away from her in Dodge because he'd thought she'd been playing him for a fool. Sadie hadn't been lying about Sterne back in Dodge. Sterne had been lying to her!
Cass clenched his fists. He had half a mind to smash Sterne's face. "God aw'mighty! Why haven't you told her?"
Sterne's hand shook as he poured himself another dram. "I tried, once."
"Once?"
"She kept fingering that damned button."
Cass knew exactly what Sterne meant. Sadie fondled her pendant whenever she was nervous or afraid. She'd confided to him, once, that the button's cap hid a secret latch. She liked to fantasize that Michelson had used the tiny compartment to hide ciphers. Or maybe to carry quinine in case he got shot. Sadie used the compartment to store a lock of her father's hair. She'd doted on Roarke Michelson. His murder had shattered her life.
Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) Page 20
