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

by Adrienne deWolfe

  That's when all hell broke loose.

  "Randie!" The cry of anguish was masculine.

  Sadie's ears were ringing. A full moon was spinning through the storm over her head. As if she were peering through a fuzzy telescope, she watched horses gallop past. She heard bullets whining through the air. A man with waxed mustachios was wrestling a woman with a black hood and poppy-colored hair for a gun. Further away, like a tiny speck on rippled glass, she saw a blond man in a pitch-colored Stetson charging up the hill.

  Then some helpful person was hauling her to her feet. Dragging her up by her collar. Clamping an arm as bendable as steel over her breasts.

  Still too winded to speak, she wheezed in protest as iron fingers bit into her scalp, yanking her head backwards against a granite shoulder. Pinpricks of light danced inside her brain. She thought she might pass out. Then the stench of sulfur jolted her senses. A red-hot gun muzzle jammed into the tender flesh beneath her chin. She yelped.

  "Think you can beat me, Cassidy?" a sneering, Midwestern accent panted in her ear.

  An ominous click reverberated through the bones of her jaw.

  "Let's see how fast you can really draw, Lucifire."

  Chapter 23

  Cass forced himself to halt his charge up the hill, his muscles screaming, his heart in an uproar.

  When a gunman used a woman as a shield, it was worse than a crime. It was an abomination. But the stakes in this showdown had risen astronomically the moment Cass realized the gunman was The Ventilator.

  And the woman was Sadie.

  Kill or be killed. That was the law of the gun. No one knew that law better than Cass. Over the years, he'd been accused of being a showboater. A braggart. A pretty-boy with a fancy set of pistols. Because he talked nice and acted polite, tough characters often mistook him for a mealy-mouthed weakling.

  Hank had been one of those tough characters. For seven long years, Cass had been haunted by his choice to flee the Rocking W rather than face Hank at high noon. To make the guilt worse, Hank had used those years to terrorize decent folks. His Wanted Posters accused him of extortion, rustling, arson, smuggling, armed robbery, kidnapping, rape, manslaughter, and capital murder. But thanks to Poppy, the charges never stuck. Hank always got paroled.

  Cass's breaths shuddered from barely controlled rage. He gazed into the glazing, tawny eyes of the woman he loved. The woman who was the reason he still aspired to do good deeds in the world. Her temple was bruised. Her throat had blistered from the gun metal. Cass reasoned that if he'd shot Hank seven years ago, Sadie would be safe.

  The thought made something inside Cass go dangerously dark and cold.

  So help me God, if Hank spills a single drop of her blood, all the torments of hell won't keep me from doling out my own brand of justice.

  Hank's right sleeve was soaked with blood. Sadie had tried to disable him rather than kill him. Cass knew this because he'd watched her do it while he'd been running up the hill and his .38 had been out of firing range. In Hank's adrenalized state, his pain wasn't great enough to drop the six-shooter he'd cocked under her chin.

  "Let Randie go." Cass didn't know why Sadie was pretending to be Randie, but the matter was moot. He played along. "Your quarrel's with me."

  "Always the ladies' man," the outlaw jeered. "You know she's screwing Baron, right?"

  Sadie whimpered.

  Cass's jaw hardened. "Relax, sweetheart. This will all be over in a minute. I promise."

  Hank laughed. "Rebel Rutter, my ass. You're more like Cuckold Cass."

  "Yeah. You got me there, pal. You're superior in every way. You want me to stroke your dick, too?"

  "Naw. I think I'll let your woman do it. After you're dead."

  Cass smiled pleasantly. Hank had no idea what type of vengeance he'd just bargained for at Sadie's hands. "Now that would be a sight to watch from hell."

  "Your sass ain't helping her, smartass."

  "Aw, c'mon, Hank. You don't want to kill a woman. You want to test me. See how fast I can really draw."

  "Well now, let's see. Since I'm already wearing your gun belt—" Hank's lip curled "—it looks like you've failed that test, grasshopper. Toss aside the piece."

  Cass was holding Collie's gun in his right hand. His weak hand.

  So he obeyed.

  Not even Lynx knew Cass was a southpaw. He'd perfected the ruse by the age of 12, practicing long and hard to become proficient with both hands. He picked up his fork with his right hand. He brushed his teeth with his right hand. He even pumped bullets into his six-shooter with his right hand.

  But when it came to close encounters, Cass's salvation, an 18-ounce Smith & Wesson, was strapped to his left forearm.

  "Spread 'em," Hank snapped.

  The magic words, Cass thought darkly.

  Now Sadie's life—and his, too—relied on split-second timing. He raised his hands over his head. He puckered his brow. He made sure he looked worried enough to keep Hank from getting suspicious.

  On the inside, Cass was iced steel.

  "This isn't going to go well for you, Hank. You'll never leave Lampasas County alive."

  Hank laughed at the warning, as Cass knew he would. Guns had a way of inflating a coward's confidence.

  "That's brave talk for a dead man. Or maybe I should say, a dead boy. S'long, sucker."

  Hank leered. He started to turn his gun muzzle away from Sadie's throat.

  With the speed of a striking rattler, Cass triggered his .38 and fired. The bullet drilled through the center of Hank's forehead.

  The outlaw blinked.

  His jaw went slack.

  A heartbeat later, he was toppling like felled timber.

  "S'long, Hank." Cass flexed his wrist to hide his pistol beneath his sleeve once more. "See ya in hell."

  Sadie hit the dirt. Now she was flailing in her mantle, which had tangled around her legs. Cass stepped forward, extending a hand to help her up.

  "Are you all right?"

  "No!" she snapped, slapping his hand away.

  "Well, let me—"

  "Don't you dare touch me!"

  "Good God, woman, what's eating you now?"

  "I'm not Randie, you insufferable, pig-headed—"

  "I knew that!"

  "You did not!"

  "C'mere," he growled, grabbing her left arm and hauling her to her feet.

  "I hate you!"

  "No, you don't—"

  Her right fist plowed into his gut, and he oomphed, doubling over. Okay. Maybe she does.

  "I just saved your life," he wheezed.

  "You just saved Randie's life. And you called her sweetheart!"

  He refused to release the wrist she kept twisting in his fist. "That was for show!"

  "Like crooning Destiny in my ear was for show!" She tried to punch him again.

  He caught her other arm and spun her against his chest. "You need a paddling something fierce!"

  "And you need a restraining order for your pecker!"

  Suddenly, a gunshot drowned out the thunder. They gasped, hugging each other tight. Hearts hammered in syncopated rhythms; lungs wheezed like squeezeboxes.

  A wail of grief shattered the night.

  "Baron," Cass choked, shoving Sadie toward the tombstone. He lunged for his fallen six-shooter. "Take cover!"

  "Like hell!" She grabbed the .32 from her waistband. "I'm going with you!"

  Together, they sprinted through lightning and shadow, around the corner of the house, toward the dirt mound by the grave. Sadie ignored the pounding in her head and the pain in her chest every time she dragged air into her lungs. She thought she might have bruised a rib when she'd rolled down the hill. But she couldn't worry about that—she wouldn't worry about that—as long as Jazi was in danger.

  Beneath a ghostly moon, she spied Randie wrapping her mantle around her child's slender shoulders. Jazi was hugging a raccoon that was trying to eat her gris-gris. Sadie figured all must be right again in the Reynolds's world.

&n
bsp; Near the lip of the pit, Sadie noticed Collie, covered with dirt. He stood with a Winchester at the side of a grim-faced Sid Wright, whose kneecaps were stained with grass. Younger and more agile than the other members of the posse, Collie and Sid had undoubtedly been the heroes who'd hauled Jazi from her grave.

  The third man on the scene was Rex. Still pretending to be retired as a Ranger, he sported a Lampasas deputy badge, which suggested he'd been spontaneously sworn-in by Sid. At any other time, Sadie might have ribbed Rex about his demotion. But today, his wolfish features were grim and his gun-metal gray eyes were stark. He was gazing at the tragedy that had transpired some 10 feet away.

  "What happened?" Sadie whispered, halting at his side.

  A muscle ticked in Rex's jaw. "When Baron heard about the posse, nothing short of leather straps could keep him in that hospital bed. He begged us to let him reason with Poppy.

  "But when we arrived, she was like a woman possessed. She told him if she couldn't have his babies, no woman would. She tried to shoot Randie. Baron struggled with her for the gun, and it went off."

  Jesus. Sadie sickened to see the senator convulsed with grief. He was cradling a limp, black-robed figure against his heart.

  Sadie turned her head away. She knew it wasn't her fault that Poppy had mistaken her strand of red hair for Randie's. Poppy had declared war on Miranda Reynolds long before Sadie had ever searched Baron's underwear drawer. Even so, it was hard to take satisfaction in solving a case that had closed so tragically.

  When Sadie forced herself to look once more, she saw Cass squatting to clasp his weeping boss's shoulder. Jazi had wrapped her arms around Baron's neck. Randie, who was kneeling beside Cass, clutched the handsome young gunslinger's arm.

  Pain lanced Sadie's heart. She drew a bolstering breath.

  "You all right?" Rex demanded, darting a much too perceptive glance her way.

  "Sure. Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Well, for one thing, you're bleeding."

  "Yeah," she murmured, "on the inside."

  "What?" Rex demanded.

  She gave him a wan smile.

  Suddenly, she felt tired. More tired than she'd ever felt in her life.

  "Nothing. It's getting late. I have a report to write."

  She turned on her heel and headed for her mare. Rex fell into step beside her.

  Charcoal clouds boiled over a full moon. Thunder boomed a final warning. Before Sadie could untether her mare, the rain finally started pouring down.

  * * *

  In a special, morning edition of the Lampasas Dispatch, Poppy Westerfield was memorialized as a model citizen, a big-hearted philanthropist, a tireless devotee to women's rights, and a loving wife.

  With mixed feelings, Sadie snipped the article and included it in her Pinkerton report, along with Bo Bodine's obituary, and a third clipping that announced the date of the legislative hearing to determine Baron's fate in the senate.

  Sadie was sure Baron's attorneys would find some way of convincing the court that any illegal correspondence that had ever come from the senator's pen had been forged by his wife. Personally, Sadie couldn't believe that Baron didn't know something about Poppy's crimes. Just like Sadie couldn't believe that Pendleton hadn't worked to cover up her conspiracy with Hank. After all, Pendleton had faithfully served the Westerfields for two decades. He'd managed their business accounts. He'd lived in their house!

  Then again, neither Pendleton nor Baron had ever guessed that Poppy was poisoning her husband.

  Sadie sighed. It's all out of my hands now.

  Shaking her head at the convoluted nightmare her investigation had uncovered, she pasted down the flap of her plain brown mailing envelope. She was glad to be done with Baron's case. She was in a hurry to get her package to the post office and her portmanteau to the train station before the whole household woke to learn she was leaving. Fortunately, the residents of Wilma's boardinghouse didn't begin stirring until noon.

  "Are you sure you won't reconsider, chere?"

  Wilma had joined her in the solarium, where they could bask in glorious streams of November sunshine. The madam was sipping a fragrant cup of chamomile tea, laced with anise, cloves, honey and—judging by the silver flask sitting by her elbow—a dollop of bourbon. Wilma looked especially refined in her gray-satin day dress, with its demure lace bodice and pinstriped skirt.

  Sadie looked more like an underfed muleskinner. She sported a scruffy beard and a stringy, shoulder-length wig that could easily have served as a bird's nest. As for her clothes, she'd traded her sodbuster's sack suit for a miner's overalls.

  "You saw the telegraph, Wilma. 'Agent missing.' Delta Belle hasn't wired headquarters for six days. And that's two days longer than a Code Red."

  Like Sadie's own code name, Scarlet Diva, Delta Belle was an alias for a Pinkie. The agent's real name was Araminta "Minx" Merripen, a Saint-Louis native, who'd been assigned to a mission in Denver. The wire from headquarters hadn't revealed any additional details. All Sadie knew was she'd been summoned to the Denver office for a debriefing.

  "Allan Pinkerton is a reasonable man, chere. You need several days to heal. Wire him about your black eye—"

  Sadie snorted. She hadn't worked four years to earn the Agency Chief's respect, only to concede now that she was soft—too soft to do a job when the Master Detective had ordered her to report to Denver.

  "I'm traveling as a man. The shiner will give me a brutish look. Nobody wants to quarrel with a brute. And that means I'll get plenty of sleep on the train."

  Wilma was careful to keep her gaze on her toddy as she lowered the dainty, rose-patterned cup to her saucer. "Are you sure you're not running away?"

  Sadie stiffened. "Are you sure you're not trying to piss me off?"

  Wilma was never daunted by Sadie's temper. "Talk to Cass. Wouldn't you want the same courtesy?"

  Sure. Talk to Coyote Cass. The man could make any lie, any absurdity, sound plausible.

  Last night, after the doctor had announced Jazi would soon be feeling as good as new, Sadie had crept upstairs to visit the child. Approaching the sickroom's open door, she'd heard Cass's merry laughter; she'd spied him sitting on the bed, his golden head close to Jazi's cheek. The child had snuggled in her nightgown against his chest. Randie had perched on the mattress beside his knee. The threesome had looked like the perfect, wholesome family—the ideal portrait for Ladies Home Journal.

  Sadie had wanted to cry.

  "Cass needs his sleep," Sadie said briskly. "He's the worst patient ever, although I hear Collie ranks a close second."

  Wilma tossed her one of her incredibly annoying, insightful glances. "I think you're making a mistake."

  "The mistake would be to wait around here, wasting time. Cass is a Ranger now. He's confined to Texas. I've been called to Colorado."

  "Did I mention that Mace is in Denver? And he recommended you for this mission?"

  Ugh. Sadie wrinkled her nose. "Don't we have any other male operatives in the west?"

  "Of course we do. But Mace pulled rank. Apparently, he's looking forward to working with you again."

  "Right. Like he's looking forward to a toothache. Did he really request me for this assignment?"

  "Apparently, he considers you the lesser of two evils."

  "Now that's disappointing. Who's more evil than I am?"

  "Pinkerton's mistress."

  Sadie smirked. That actually made sense. Mace would have to tow the line with the Agency Chief's woman. "Then I'll consider that a compliment." She plunked her miner's hat on her head and tucked her envelope under her arm.

  "What should I tell Rex?" Wilma demanded.

  Sadie winced. She hated long good-byes. Mustering a devil-may-care grin and a breezy tone, she quipped: "Tell him I'll see him the next time I'm in Texas."

  "And you think he'll be satisfied by that?"

  "Honestly, Wilma." Sadie stooped to buss the Cajun's cheek. "It's not like he's my father."

  With a cheerful wave, S
adie swept past potted palms and baskets of trailing poppymallow. She was so intent on getting to the door, she didn't bother to glance out the window. If she had, she might have noticed a tow-headed youth under the sill, whittling an image of his raccoon.

  * * *

  Feeling like a cotton pod had exploded in his brain, Cass dragged himself out of bed and splashed water on his face. He didn't like that he still felt groggy after his encounter with Poppy's stinger ring. No liquor of his acquaintance had ever packed that kind of wallop, and that was saying a lot, because he was pretty sure he'd cozied up to every liquor ever distilled from grapes, juniper berries, agaves, sugar cane, potatoes, corn, rye, and wheat. Hell, if spirits were distilled from turpentine, he'd probably drunk them too. And mostly in Dodge.

  Wilma's doctor had said Cass was drugged, not poisoned—which had sounded like a bit of hair-splitting to his mind. Dr. Berger had hypothesized that Poppy must have pricked Cass's jugular vein with a super-powered jolt of opium. That's why he'd fallen asleep so fast.

  Well, whatever that stuff had been, Cass didn't want to be pricked by it again. The stinger ring had given him a hangover with none of the feel-good benefits that made a headache worthwhile.

  Grimacing into the stream of daylight pouring past his curtains, Cass yawned, stretched, and scratched his chest. Glancing south of his navel, he realized for the first time he'd been shucked.

  Imagine that. Me butt-naked in a whorehouse, without a single redhead in sight. Where's Sadie?

  He reached for his trousers. At about the same time, a commotion started in the hall. He recognized Collie's gruff, backwoods grumble.

  "Where'd you hide my coon? He'd better not be in your travel bag. No coon of mine is sailing to New Orleans! You got that, Freckles?"

  A tiny foot stomped in indignation. "I am not Freckles! Just for that, you're going to have to give me your harmonica."

  "What?"

  "You heard me," Jazi said imperiously.

  "I don't have a harmonica!"

  "Oh yes, you do. You stole Gator's."

  "Shh!" Collie hissed. "Vandy dropped it in the tub of mudbugs."