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

by Adrienne deWolfe

  "Your calling card," he jeered. "My wife found it in my underwear drawer. Needless to say, she raised quite a ruckus."

  Sadie didn't have to feign surprise. "Senator, I do confess to being one of your biggest fans. But I assure you. I draw the line at pinching underwear."

  "You think I was born yesterday?" He stalked closer, his breadth squeezing out the light from the open window. "You put on a wig and a maid's uniform and searched my suite for Sterne! Your stunt caused a great deal of trouble for a lady friend of mine, and if anything happens to her or her child, so help me God, I'll take every ounce of their pain out on your flesh!"

  Sadie struggled with her composure. He'd leaped to the right conclusion—for the wrong reasons. He hadn't yet guessed she was a Pinkerton. But then, what man in his right mind suspected a woman of being an undercover detective?

  "Senator, I enjoy pleasure games as much as the next woman, but I'm not sure I understand what role you're asking me to play in this fantasy you've dreamed up."

  "You think you're the only floozy who ever tried to blackmail me?"

  "By stealing your underwear? Come now, Senator. Even you have to admit that's—"

  Baron's fist lashed out. She hadn't anticipated the blow, so she didn't duck fast enough. Ears ringing, eyes stinging, she staggered backward, her hips striking the vanity.

  But Sadie wasn't 13 and defenseless any more. With the fury of a wounded tiger, she snapped her wrist to draw her pistol.

  "Touch me again," she spat, "and your wife will find lead in your underwear next time."

  Baron's fist tightened over his walking stick. "Seems like you need a little lesson in firearms, Sugar Plum. Even my wife knows you don't draw a gun on a man unless you have the balls to pull the trigger."

  Sadie drew a shuddering breath. She was a crack shot, but she'd never aimed to kill a man, and the tip of Baron's walking stick was only inches from her pistol's muzzle. If her bullet caused a wound that wasn't immediately mortal... Well, Baron's cane could do a lot of damage before she fired a second shot.

  "Get out," she snapped.

  His smile was far from pleasant. "Whatcha gonna do if I don't, Sweet Pea? You're all alone out here. Ain't nobody around to hear you—"

  Another knock rattled her door.

  "Miss O'Leary," an authoritative voice boomed. "Open up. It's Marshal Wright. I have questions about Tito Ferraro."

  Her gun hand quaked with relief. She hated her show of weakness. But she hated even more that she'd given Baron a reason to silence her. Permanently.

  "Come in, marshal," she called hoarsely. "Senator Westerfield was just leaving."

  Baron's vengeful glare stabbed through her before he pasted on a horsey smile for the opening door. Wright doffed his hat. While the lawman's eyes were momentarily averted, Sadie hid her gun beneath her skirts.

  That's when the strangest thing happened.

  Baron began to wheeze.

  He clutched his abdomen.

  He staggered.

  Alarm darkened Wright's craggy features as the senator abruptly crashed to his knees, puking all over Sadie's dahlias.

  "What the—"

  Before Wright could finish his sentence, Baron toppled like felled timber. Gurgling, he flailed on his back, blood-flecked drool dribbling down his chin. His chest heaved in great, labored gasps.

  Wright muttered an oath, ripping open Baron's coat, vest and shirt. "Don't just stand there, woman! Fetch a doctor!"

  Chapter 18

  Devil's Eve. That's what Cass used to call the night before Halloween. In his youth, he'd looked forward to making a nuisance of himself, mostly as vengeance on Townie Folk, who'd treated him like dirt throughout the year. Cass had fond memories of pranking the high-and-mighty planter class back in Pilot Grove. He'd lopped off the heads of scarecrows, unhinged garden gates, overturned wagons, and painted picket fences a nauseating shade of pink.

  Unfortunately, he hadn't had time to amuse himself this year, and not just because of his manhunt. Cass's mind kept straying to Collie. He was beginning to fear the kid had finally mouthed off to the wrong bully—namely, Hank. Collie hadn't returned to the hotel room last night, and the stable boy hadn't seen Rhubarb since 1 a.m.

  Cass tried to tell himself he was wasting brain space to worry about the kid. Collie was notorious for disappearing acts that could rival any ghost's. On a night like Devil's Eve, what dyed-in-the-wool troublemaker wouldn't want to blow off a little steam? When Cass spied a surrey on the jail's roof, he imagined he saw Collie's influence in the mischief, especially after Sid yelled out the door:

  "You can't hide that kid forever! You'd best get your loyalties straight, Cassidy, or you'll go down with him!"

  Cass hid his smirk. Apparently, Collie was still at-large, rather than cooling his heels in the hoosegow.

  But as the morning wore on, Cass's worry grew. Nobody had seen hide nor hair of Collie at the Commercial Saloon, the Barleycorn, or even Odd Fellow Hall. However, some craps players in an alley were buzzing with gossip—unbelievable gossip—about another person near and dear to Cass's heart. When he remained skeptical, one of the gamblers shoved a special noon edition of the Dispatch into his hands. The headline read:

  Baron Poisoned by Chantelle:

  Jilted Floozy Ambushes Senator in Hotel Dressing Room

  Cass was pretty sure his jaw hit the dirt.

  The article read:

  "According to Dr. Berger, Senator Westerfield swallowed an overdose of arsenic by eating tainted soul cakes from a basket in Miss O'Leary's dressing room. Miss O'Leary declined to comment..."

  Eight minutes later, Cass was kicking aside jack o'lanterns and sprinting up Wilma's porch steps. But the cagey madam had been expecting him. She cracked open the door before he could reach for the knocker.

  "It's still too early for trick-or-treat, cher," Wilma greeted in her usual, unperturbed manner. She was dressed in some ceremonial Mambo costume, including a white robe and indigo apron that reeked of a pungent incense. Her dark curls were completely swathed in a silk scarf, patterned with amethyst, sapphire, and aquamarine swirls. Her ears were pierced by enormous gold rings, and when she cocked her head, another set of rings jingled from the long ends of her headdress.

  "But it's not too early for costumes, I see." Cass pressed forward, but she wouldn't budge. He scowled. "Don't tell me you're still pissed about last night."

  "I don't get mad; I get even." She flashed her Cheshire-cat smile. "And while I'm deciding on your comeuppance, you should know that Rexford Sterne stopped by. He left word he wants you to report to his campaign office. Double pronto."

  "Sterne's not the boss of me."

  "You're a newly minted Ranger, are you not?"

  Cass scowled. He didn't think he would ever get used to taking orders. Especially from Sterne.

  "Sterne can wait. I read the newspaper. I know you're hiding Sadie."

  As if on cue, Cottonmouth and Gator stepped out of the shadows, flanking Wilma like a pair of copper-skinned gorillas.

  "Sadie isn't receiving visitors at the moment."

  "She'll receive me!"

  Gator grinned, cracking his knuckles in a menacing manner. Cotton flicked the tip of his pigsticker with his thumb.

  "Cher, be reasonable," Wilma soothed above her gorillas' posturing. "Sadie had a rough morning."

  "I had a rough morning! I've been tracking an outlaw since 2 a.m., without a goddamned thing in my belly except the gnat I swallowed by accident!"

  Wilma had the good grace not to smirk. "So you caught the outlaw, then."

  Cass's jaw twitched with annoyance. Not exactly. But he did know Hank was hiding in town.

  "I'm in no mood for a quarrel, Wilma."

  "Then get some food, cher. And some sleep. In a couple of days, I'm sure Sadie will be feeling better."

  Cass's heart stalled. "Feeling better? Did she get sick too?"

  A dark flush rolled up Wilma's cheeks. "Of course not. But you threatened to truss her up lik
e a turkey. After that nonsense in the Dispatch, Sadie's not in a forgiving mood right now. Give her some time. A week should do." Wilma blew him a kiss.

  Then she closed the door in his face.

  Cass blinked. If he hadn't been so shocked to see his reflection gaping back at him in the glass panes, he might have smashed his fist through her window.

  So Sadie was still angry with him, was she?

  Well, there's more than one way to skin a cat, like Baron said!

  His spurs chinking a harsh little tattoo, Cass stalked down the porch stairs and stepped out beneath purple thunderheads, none of which had unleashed yet. Kicking up a dust storm in the street, he made a great show of heading for Sterne's campaign office.

  But the moment Cass was sure he was out of sight of Wilma's picture window, he backtracked, creeping along her 10-foot fence, climbing a handy cottonwood tree, and sneaking through an open casement on the second story.

  * * *

  Sadie nearly jumped a foot off the vanity stool when she heard a fist hammering on the door of Wilma's boudoir.

  "Sadie!" It was Cass's voice. "Open up! I know you're in there."

  She muttered an oath, casting a desperate glance at her reflection in the elaborately carved, serpentine mirror. Next she gazed at the hopelessly melting ice in the washrag in her fist.

  Dear God. Not Cass. Not now!

  No one was supposed to know she was hiding out in Wilma's bedroom—well, except for Rex. Wilma had insisted on delivering Sadie's report about Bodine's "accidental death," minus the embarrassing detail that she'd let Baron smash her face, of course.

  At the time, Sadie had been too exhausted to argue with Wilma's wisdom when she'd urged, "Lay low and plead a woman's complaint." Wilma had seemed to think Rex would do something violently illegal if he spied Sadie's black eye and the one-inch gash marring her cheekbone, thanks to Baron's wedding ring.

  The good news was, the cut wouldn't scar and her vision was as sharp as ever. The bad news was, she looked like she'd collided with a locomotive. Even so, Sadie couldn't imagine Rex getting violently illegal about a shiner.

  Cass, however, was another matter.

  "Go away!" she shouted, darting on bare, catlike feet around Wilma's love lair so she could turn down the gas lamps. Where the hell are Cotton and Gator? What good are twin bouncers if neither of them can barricade a street door?

  "Are you poisoned?"

  "No!"

  "Then we need to talk," Cass called.

  "I don't want to talk!"

  Sadie clutched Wilma's black, satin robe around her throat and backed as far as possible from the bombazine keeping the noonday sun from pouring through the windows. Light was not her friend right now.

  "This isn't a social call, woman!"

  "Yeah? Well, I'm not open for business."

  "What the devil's the matter with you?"

  "You! You know better than to send me a basket full of pastries!"

  "I didn't send you any pastries!"

  She blew out her breath. She didn't know whether to be relieved or alarmed to have her suspicion confirmed about his forged signature. "Well, someone did. And signed your name to the card."

  "What?" He rattled the brass door handle. "You think I tried to poison you?"

  "No, I think you're a cockroach! Last night, total strangers showered me with roses, but you couldn't give me one stinking daisy! Or a bottle of champagne. Or that forged card, apparently! You didn't even stay for my second solo! You were too busy ransacking my vanity and sticking a knife through my nose!"

  "Served you right! You showed up on Sterne's arm. And as I recall, I gave you a gold chain for your button!"

  "Yeah? Well, who asked you to? Get lost!"

  A heartbeat passed. Then another. She curled nervous toes through the plush, shag pile of Persian wool. She knew Cass too well to think he'd tucked his tail and slinked away just because she'd turned diva on him.

  And then she heard it. The dreaded scraping of a widdy in the lock.

  "Cass, so help me God, I'll brain you with a candle stick if you come busting through that—"

  But he was a lot faster with a lock pick than she remembered. She'd barely had time to grab the brass implement of his destruction before the door banged open, and he towered on the threshold, scowling.

  "Why is it so dark in here?"

  "I was sleeping!"

  "The bed's made."

  She cursed her stupidity. "On the chaise!" she fired back. "What the hell kind of man breaks into an unwilling woman's bedroom?"

  He cocked his head. She could tell by the flicker of his emotions, his anger was rapidly dissolving into suspicion. "It's not like you to hide in the corner, Tiger."

  She swallowed hard. Damn his Coyote instincts. "I want you out of this room! Now!"

  His wary gaze flitted over the ebonized furnishings. The boudoir's showpiece was a towering half-tester bed in the Rococo style. The mahogany posters gleamed like dark flames in the flickering storm-light, pouring through the doorway. Sensual furs and silky comforters enticed male visitors for a sumptuous romp beneath a gold-and-burgundy canopy, crowned with a medallion of Wilma's monogram.

  Cass didn't look impressed. He was too busy hunting for threats. At least, that was Sadie's guess, since he barely glanced at the lovers writhing on the scarlet silk of the hand-painted dressing screen. Nor did he pay attention to the tinkling crystal in the chandelier; the wicked sleigh-chaise that could be cranked up or down to accentuate pleasure; the boxy, chintz-draped chiffonier (whose deceptively staid drawers hid Wilma's most imaginative tools;) or any of the ruby vases, sporting blood-red poppies mingled with the fluffy plumes of albino peacocks (Sadie's favorite love toy.)

  Cass did, however, focus on shadows, especially around the bottom of the dressing screen, draperies, wardrobe, and mattress. He tossed her a questioning look and patted his holster.

  "Of course I'm alone! And safe."

  "No lover hiding under the bed, eh?"

  "Why must you always leap to the most sordid conclusion? Can't a woman just sleep, for God's sake?"

  He was watching her now as if she were a confidence man playing three-card Monte. "Sure you can sleep. But first, step into the light."

  Panic threatened what little composure she had left. "Cass, I'll scream this house down around your head if you don't leave! Now!"

  "Truce?"

  "No!"

  "How come?"

  "Because!"

  He closed the door and advanced.

  "Cass, I'm warning you! Not another step!"

  His eyes narrowed, and his strides grew more determined.

  "Cass, please... " She was cornered—literally. She strangled on a sob. The candlestick slipped from her fingertips.

  Then he was standing before her, staring at her shiner. His breath sucked in on a hissing rush of outrage. In that moment, his expression was truly terrible: an unholy mask of vengeance. Satan himself would have fled for the hills.

  "Who?" he demanded in guttural tones.

  Tears were streaming down her cheeks. She hated herself for that show of weakness; she knew what it would cost. Her shiner didn't hurt nearly as much as the realization she would lose him—in a heartbeat—if he gunned down a senator in her defense.

  "Don't leave me!" she sobbed, desperately flinging herself into his arms.

  Cass staggered, clasping her shuddering length protectively to his chest. It was bad enough that some bastard had struck a woman—his woman—in the face. But what really rocked his world was the sight of Sadie, shedding tears. Never, in the 13 years that he'd known her, had he seen the Devil's Daughter weep. Sadie was more of the pounce-and-claw-your-eyes-out kind of female.

  "Sadie," he rasped, "I'll make this right for you. I swear. On my mother's grave, I will!"

  His vow didn't elicit the desired effect. She buried her face in his throat and wept harder.

  Now he was worried some of her bruises weren't visible. He struggled to rein in his fury
as he searched for other damage. Anxiously, he smoothed her flaming curls away from the creamy column of her neck. Gingerly, he pushed ebony silk from her alabaster shoulders. The sight of all those darling freckles, dancing with such carefree abandon over her pouty breasts, made his heart hurt. He couldn't bear to know he'd failed to protect her in Galveston, and now in Lampasas. He would kill the sniveling coward who'd cut her face and caused her pain!

  "Sadie," he begged, his throat aching, "please don't cry. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not ever again."

  "How can you do that if you leave me?"

  "I'm not going to leave you."

  "You always leave me! Like you did in Pilot Grove!"

  "But sweetheart, I had to. The law was hot on my trail—"

  "You left me in Dodge because of the law, too!"

  He winced, guilt searing his gut. "I was an uncurried fool. I should have believed you—"

  "And then you left me in Galveston!"

  "Oh God," he groaned, burying his face in her curls. "I'll never forgive myself for that. Never."

  She sniffled.

  A moment passed.

  "Well, I did tell you to leave that time," she conceded grudgingly. "For your own good. Before you got recognized at the Satin Siren."

  "Doesn't matter."

  She fidgeted, wiping her cheek against his bandanna.

  "But you couldn't have known there'd be a fire in my bedroom," she said, her voice muffled and contrite against his shirt collar. "No one could have known. And I really was glad to see you alive and healthy. And looking so fine. After Wyatt Earp ran you out of Dodge, I had no way of knowing how you were. Or where you were. Or if I'd ever see you again!"

  Cass's heart swelled at her confession. He knew how much Sadie deplored "icky, sappy, girly feelings," as her 15-year-old self had once described them. Unless Sadie was singing to a hundred adoring men from the safety of a stage, sentiment rarely crossed her lips. In private, Sadie preferred to joke. Or throw things.

  "Sadie," he murmured, "do you remember what I promised you that last night we were together in Dodge?"

  Gently, insistently, he raised her head. Spiky, tear-drenched lashes quivered over luminous jewels. Sparkles of topaz, citrine, and amber flashed like sunshine in her eyes. She was his dawn. The power to light his whole world.