"I promised that someday, I would teach you how to love," he said huskily. "And I promised, too, you would like it." He ran the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip. "That time has come, darlin'."
As Cass lowered his head, Sadie trembled. How could she have forgotten a promise like that? Four years ago, she had dared to fantasize, picturing what life might have been like, if she could be free of her brothel contract and he could be free of the bounty on his head. But less than an hour later, Cass had ridden out of town, and she'd been painfully reminded her lover was a master of pretty words and ardent declarations. Never the truth.
Now Cass was a Ranger. That meant he couldn't be hers today any more than he'd been hers as an outlaw. But as lightning sizzled beyond the windows of their love lair, Sadie kissed him anyway. It was a way of keeping him close. Of distracting him. Of saving him from Hank and the hangman. In the harsh, clear light of dawn, when she had to face the tyranny of her conscience, she knew she could let Cass go, if he wouldn't be happy to stay in her arms. What she couldn't do was go on living, if she knew he'd never wake up to see the sunrise.
His tongue tangled with hers, the heady taste of spiced ardor. His clothes smelled of tobacco, leather, and horse, but the fragrance of sandalwood clung to his skin, making her long to lick the brine from his chest—and lap up the flavors beckoning much lower.
Slyly, he slipped the tie of her robe. Silk slithered in a puddle to her ankles. Her nakedness flushed, brazed by the promise of his caress. When he swept her up in his arms, his mouth was still feasting on hers. He carried her to the bed, pausing only long enough to unbuckle his guns and kick off his boots. Then he was sinking with her into the soft pelage of wolf and puma.
With a hungry little growl, she made short work of the buttons on his fly while his muscular shoulders shrugged off his shirt. She enjoyed sliding her palms over the tawny fur of his chest, tracing the golden down over rock-ribbed planes. Wickedly, she buried her fingers in the springy little curls that cradled his virility. When she squeezed, dragging her thumbnail along his ridged trigger, he growled in return.
But he wouldn't let her stroke that princely shaft. Instead, he insisted on her pleasure. After enduring years of groping from drunken, belching clods, Sadie craved a lighter, more creative touch. Instinctively, Cass understood this. His sensitivity to her tiniest tremor, her softest sigh, was a wet dream come true.
Her eyelashes fluttered closed. A dreamy languor weighted her limbs. Oh, the things the Rebel Rutter could do with his tongue! His sly, persistent kisses could make her forget who she was. Where she was. Whether heaven was up or down. He could coax tremors of ecstasy with just that clever, mobile mouth! His ability was a rare, advanced skill—and a point of pride with him.
She smiled a little at the memories.
But today he took another, more leisurely route to her satisfaction. As thunder shook the walls, he worshipped her body, every inch—every freckle. She squirmed in helpless delight as he sucked her ticklish navel; she laughed as his tongue flicked, serpent-like, between her toes. She trembled with anticipation as his stubbled chin gently scraped the quivering, inner flesh of her thigh. At last, moist little gusts of heat were tantalizing her cleft.
"Cass," she breathed, half plea, half sigh.
The pad of his thumb was callused—devastating to her restraint. He knew that. He plied it anyway.
She arched helplessly, and he feasted.
It wasn't just his tender nipping or the wicked thrusting of his fingers that drove her wild. It was the deep, guttural growl of his satisfaction. Like some great, predatory beast, he was intent on devouring his fill. The slurping and the panting made her ooze with shameless wanting. She grabbed a fistful of his hair to encourage his feeding.
Contrary as usual, he caught her wrists and stretched them over her head.
"But Cass—"
"Silence, wench. I'll please you any damned way I want."
"Like hell."
He chuckled wolfishly.
It was the old game, and she loved it—especially when he entered her with a juicy sound.
His fingers twined with hers. "Ever fly to the moon?" he taunted huskily.
She bit back a moan. "Not with you."
"Liar." Sharp little teeth prickled her earlobe. "I think I'll stop."
"I'll kill you!"
"That's my angel."
Her breaths were ripping now. Every fiber of her being threatened to splinter with sensation. Like some crazy, chaotic kaleidoscope, he had her spinning out of control. Fire and ice, silence and thunder—her senses were imploding. And then, just when she didn't think she could bear another exquisite second of his love-making, she shattered into a hundred-million prism pieces, careening through rainbows like a wild, shooting star.
His hands gripped hers hard as she rocketed through that blizzard of sparkles.
"Through all time, you and me: born for you," he crooned the lyrics in her ear.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. One by one, he kissed them away. With infinite tenderness, he smoothed the tangle of curls from her swollen cheek. Then he folded her against his chest. She clung to his neck, afraid to speak the words that ached to be freed.
I love you, Cass.
The sweet, steady thrumming of his heart was like a lullaby. Feeling safe for the first time since Galveston, she closed her eyes and slept.
Chapter 19
As shadows lengthened across the bed, Cass lay beside Sadie, watching her breathe. His throat ached to spy the glistening trace of a tear; his blood boiled to see the gash and the puffy, green-black bruise that marred her perfect beauty. If he used his imagination, he could picture the outline of knuckles and the wedding ring that had raised that shiner.
His lips twisted in a silent snarl.
After those headlines in the Dispatch, he didn't need a crystal ball to know Baron was responsible. Cass now understood why Sadie had hidden in the shadows—and why Wilma had tried to send him away. Their efforts had only delayed the inevitable. Cass didn't give a rat's ass if Baron was sick. Or a senator. The bastard was not going to get away with hitting his woman!
With the stealth of his canine namesake, Cass slipped from the bed and gathered his clothes. In a brothel, nobody cared about the proprieties, so he dressed in the hall and buckled on his guns. The familiar weight of his six-shooters brought to mind another problem.
Hank.
Cass muttered an oath as the name rolled through his mind. He'd almost forgotten his vow to determine what had really happened between Baron and The Ventilator at Aquacia Bathhouse.
Well, Baron can tell me himself when I drag him out of that hospital bed.
Retrieving one of his three widdies—in this case, the decoy he liked to let lawmen find in his hatband—Cass relocked Sadie's door. Grimacing with the effort, he bent the slender pick and snapped off its tip in the keyhole.
That should keep the spitfire from tracking killers by her lonesome.
As he descended to the first landing, he glanced out the vaulted windows. Shafts of light punched through pewter storm clouds. He figured the hour was after four o'clock. Sundown was about 90 minutes away. Across the street, candle flames flickered in the jack o' lanterns, smiling so gruesomely from a neighbor's porch steps. Silhouetted by the setting sun, a man in a chocolate Stetson loitered in that yard. He perched on a hay bale like some reckless scarecrow, tapping cigarette ash and blowing rings of smoke into the breeze.
Other than daring the devil by smoking on a flammable seat, the man wasn't remarkable. He had a brown duster. Brown boots. Brown hair. Nevertheless, prickles of warning sprinkled Cass's scalp.
Hank?
Cass couldn't see the man's face, but his instincts had never failed him. Determined to confront his nemesis, Cass crawled out the parlor window to avoid Cotton.
But when Cass rounded the building, a buckboard of whooping, dark-skinned children rolled down the center of Third Street. The boys were throwing straw at each other. The girls
were eating soul cakes and sugar skulls. Cass guessed the black-robed padre was driving the orphans to a Halloween fandango.
Only a few seconds ticked by as the church wagon trundled past, but when the dust settled, Cass realized the man on the hay bale had vanished.
Muttering an oath, Cass checked the bullets in his guns and headed for the livery. He hoped to challenge Hank there, but when he reached the stable yard, he realized he'd followed a dead trail, at least where The Ventilator was concerned. Cass did find a roan tethered next to Pancake; however, the gelding wasn't Rhubarb.
A fresh wave of worry plagued Cass's gut. Where the hell was Collie? And why hadn't he stopped Baron from hitting Sadie? Collie could be a surly cuss, but he had his priorities straight. If he'd thought Baron was in a fist-swinging mood, the kid would have protected Sadie, not abandoned her.
Mounting up, Cass turned Pancake toward the town's hospital. But he hadn't cantered more than a block when he spied a commotion near the Public Square. A small but noisy crowd of Tejanos had gathered beside the red-and-white pole of Boomer's Barbershop. By the time Cass had ridden the distance, Sid had arrived on the scene.
"All right, all right, simmer down," the marshal boomed. "Silencio!" he added, wading through the anxious Tejanos. "There are no such things as goblins. Not even in cemeteries."
"But little Pedro saw a monster!" cried a chubby señora.
"And evil fire magic!" a youthful voice chimed in.
"The monster called down thunder," shouted another boy from the rear. "He blasted a hole in the old caretaker's door!"
"Sí!" shouted several niňos.
Sid snorted, folding brawny arms across his chest. "And just what were you boys doing on Mr. Oldham's property? After dark?"
A guilty hush settled over the younger members of the audience.
Sid drilled his gunfighter's glare into one of the shorter hecklers. "Well, Joaquin?"
The boy fidgeted, averting his eyes. "Er... I think I was lost, señor. On my way home from church."
Amusement vied with the authoritative scowl on Sid's face. "You think you were lost?"
Somebody snickered.
"I'm not going to find any rotten eggs or flour residue if I ride out to that cottage. Am I, Luis?"
"Oh no, señor," the older, taller rascal lied. "Flour bombs are for babies."
"Yeah?" Sid lowered bristling, black eyebrows. "Then what do you know about the surrey on my roof?"
Luis gulped and bolted. So did a half-dozen other adolescents, scattering in every direction.
"I'll lock you up and throw away the key!" Sid hollered after the mischief-makers. "Don't think I won't!"
Cass snickered behind his hand.
Sid caught his eye and reddened. "Shut up." Hiking his trousers, the marshal bellowed to the rest of the crowd, "All right, folks! The show's over! Move along, or you'll be doing all your trick-or-treating from jail!"
Well, that lit a fire under the macabrely curious. Before Cass could count to ten, the sidewalk beside Boomer's barber pole looked like a ghost town.
Sid chuckled. "Works every time," he confided to no one in particular.
Cass swung from the saddle.
"What're you doing here?" Sid demanded, hooking his thumbs over his gun belt.
"I came to get my boots shined. Is that a crime?"
"Maybe," the marshal said ominously. "I can sure make it one."
"Hey!" Joaquin protested.
"Aren't you just a little curious about what those boys saw at the cemetery last night?" Cass demanded.
"You telling me how to do my job?"
"Nope. Just asking a civil question of a peace officer."
Sid grunted. He didn't look convinced. "Well, seeing as how you're a stranger to these parts, I reckon you wouldn't know about local Halloween traditions," he said. "The fact is, I hear the same cock-n-bull story every year. Ghosts dancing 'round the lynching tree. Goblin faces peeking out the windows.
"'Course, I might be troubled to investigate further for a good reason," he added grimly. "Like, you think McAffee was causing mischief at the Oldham place. Or maybe you got wind he was poisoning folks."
"Aw, c'mon, Sid. Who put a bug in your ear about that boy? Collie's a good kid."
"Not according to your boss's wife."
"Poppy?"
"That's right. I couldn't say anything last night 'cause she swore me to secrecy. She was afraid for her life."
Cass frowned.
"Look, Cass. I should be keeping my mouth shut, but we go back a long way. So I'll tell it to you straight. About two days ago, Mrs. Westerfield came to me in a hand-wringing tizzy. Said she'd sent Tito on an errand. He was supposed to walk to the post office and mail her correspondence. He should have been gone 20 minutes, but he never came back. He missed his appointment to drive her to a Suffragette meeting. He missed lunch and dinner, too, which she claimed was unlike him. She was deeply worried. She said she doted on that boy."
Ignoring the skepticism on Cass's face, Sid continued, "Mrs. Westerfield checked the livery. Tito's horse was missing, and he'd cleared his carpetbag from the hotel room. At first, she thought he'd quit his job. But then she remembered how he and Collie had argued. How the boy had threatened to make him pay. And then she noticed that Collie was whittling with Tito's knife."
"What?"
"I know you think the kid's reformed. So I did a little investigating. Sent out wires to marshals in surrounding towns. Tito's horse showed up in Belton yesterday. The circuit preacher, who was riding the nag, claimed he bought it in Lampasas for $100. From a fella named McAffee."
"That's ridiculous!"
Sid hiked an eyebrow. "Are you saying a senator's wife is telling whoppers?"
"No," Cass ground out reluctantly. "I'm saying there has to be another explanation."
"Well, I've got a poisoned corpse on my hands, a sworn testimony from a senator's wife, a missing suspect, and a sick senator—whom Collie had plenty of time to poison last night," Sid added grimly. "The longer McAffee hides, the more suspicious he looks. If you care about that kid, then convince him to pay me a call. With an alibi."
The marshal's tin star flashed as he swung up into the saddle. Pinching his hat brim, he gave Cass a grim nod before he spurred his gelding.
Cass stood scowling after Sid's cloud of dust. None of Poppy's story made sense. First of all, why would she go to Sid? She had no faith in him as a lawman.
Secondly, Collie had his own whittling knife, one of the few gifts his Pa had given him. Collie wasn't likely to covet someone else's blade.
Third, the kid wasn't any horse trader, but if he'd been trying to raise cash fast, he sure as hell wouldn't have sold a sweet-tempered, reliable mare for a measly $100!
Cass felt a tentative tug on his sleeve. Joaquin stood beside him, a dab of bootblack on his nose. A small cross, make of bone, peeked from the open laces of his orange and green serape. He was crumpling the brim of his sombrero as he turned the hat nervously in his hands.
"Seňor Cass, Collie is mi amigo. Did he really do all those bad things the gringo lawman said?"
"No, niňo." Cass forced a smile for the youngster, whose butternut face was creased with worry. "Sometimes, lawmen have to sort through a lot of gossip and misunderstandings to find the truth. Kind of like Marshal Wright did today, when you were too afraid to tell him what you really saw at the cemetery."
Joaquin's chin jutted. "You saw how he was! He thinks I'm a baby! He wouldn't believe anything I said!"
Cass dropped to one knee and squeezed the boy's shoulder. "I think you're man enough to tell me the truth."
Joaquin fidgeted. He averted his eyes.
"Marshal Wright's gone now, son. You can speak your piece. Tell me about this fire and thunder that blasted a hole through the door at the Oldham place. Was it a rifle shot?"
Joaquin nodded reluctantly. "I saw a shadowy figure, wearing a Stetson. He was inside the house. He was a mean hombre. He kept laughing and shooting at us niň
os!"
Cass's jaw hardened. "Did he hit anyone?"
"Only Collie."
Cass must have blanched, because Joaquin added hastily, "I mean, he hit Collie's liquor bottle when he was running past the fountain."
"What else can you tell me?"
"He kept shouting at Collie. Something like, 'I owe you a slug for putting a hole in my bowler!' Then Collie got kind of squeamish. He lost his dinner."
Squeamish? Cass frowned. That wasn't a word he would normally use to describe Collie. "Where?"
"On the steps of the Villarreal tomb. About a 100 yards southeast of the central fountain," Joaquin added helpfully.
"Did Collie come back to town with you?"
Tears glistened in the boy's eyes. He shook his head.
Something cold settled in the pit of Cass's stomach. He would have bet his badge that Hank was the sniper in the cemetery.
"Joaquin," he said grimly, pressing a nickel into the youngster's palm, "I want you to do me a favor."
Joaquin nodded eagerly.
"Go and find General Sterne. Tell him Señor Cass sent you with an urgent message. Tell him everything you saw and heard at the cottage. Tell him the truth, just like you told me. Then tell the general I'll be at the boneyard, scouting around. Can you remember all that?"
"Si, señor!"
"Gracias, niňo."
Sheet lightning illuminated swollen thunderheads as Cass cantered toward the cemetery. The wind was picking up, tearing red and brown leaves from thrashing trees. Along the road, he encountered several Tejano families. Huddled for warmth in their mule-drawn carts, they were headed back to town after their ritual grave-decorating. He waved them to a halt so he could question them in Spanish.
None of the Tejanos remembered seeing a youth of Collie's description, much less a sniper trespassing on the Oldham property. The general consensus was that the cemetery had emptied of all revelers, because preparations must be made for the Feast of the Dead, which Tejanos typically served in their homes at sundown.
His uneasiness mounting, Cass thanked them for their help and rode on.
Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) Page 24
