Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1)

by Adrienne deWolfe

  Lawmen were just men, she comforted herself grimly. And there wasn't a man alive she couldn't charm, seduce, or just plain outsmart.

  Chapter 2

  Fort Worth, Texas April 1874

  Cord Rawlins squinted at the crudely painted sign. It was supposed to proclaim the shack before him as the Diamondback Saloon. He wasn't much good at letters, but he recognized the snarling rattler with its exaggerated fangs. Little else distinguished this pinewood shanty from the dozen other saloons on Main Street. One-story beer joints with their false fronts and swinging doors were as common as dust in Hell's Half Acre.

  Cord swung down from his saddle and tied Poco to the crowded hitching post. At high noon, the Diamondback was already rowdy. Piano music tinkled above the laughter and cursing that floated outside. A gunshot suddenly hushed the din, but the noise quickly roared back to normal. Cord smiled mirthlessly and unhooked his holster's trigger guard. Near the door, another sign demanded that all patrons check their weapons with the sheriff. The ordinance was largely ignored now, but five years earlier, Cord had strictly enforced it when he had kept the peace here as a Texas Ranger.

  "Think she's in there, Cord?"

  Nodding, Cord donned his sternest expression for the eager sixteen-year-old who had refused to stay out of trouble and on the range, where he belonged.

  Undaunted, Wes Rawlins jumped down from his horse. His red-gold head rose four inches higher than his brother's.

  "Hey, Zack, get your nose outta that paper," Wes said, slapping a hand across his double-holstered rig. "We're gonna catch ourselves a real train robber!"

  Zack's high, thoughtful brow furrowed as he studied Fancy Holleday's wanted poster. At seventeen, he had taken it upon himself to be a gentling influence on his two more willful brothers.

  "Are you sure we're on the right trail, Cord?" Zack asked. "I mean, Miss Holleday looks too purdy to be an outlaw."

  Wes snickered, elbowing Cord in the ribs. "Zack's in love with the bandit queen."

  "I am not!"

  "You are too."

  Zack blushed to the roots of his chestnut hair, and Cord shook his head. He wondered for the hundredth time why he hadn't cuffed his brothers to the breakfast table—as he'd had half a mind to do—when he'd left Aunt Lally's ranch. For two days, Wes and Zack had dogged him north through desperado country. Fearing they might get their fool heads blown off, he had finally let them catch up.

  "Quit your squawking," he told them. "I want the two of you to wait out here."

  "Nothing doing, Cord."

  "That's right," Zack chimed in. "We're going in with you. We promised Aunt Lally we'd bring you back safe in time for droving, and safe you're gonna be."

  Cord sighed. He figured it was useless to remind his still-wet—behind—the—ears brothers that he'd survived the War Between the States, several Indian raids, and countless shootouts without their help. Arguing with them now would only waste time, and God knew, he had wasted enough of that by tracking Fancy Holleday.

  Never mind that hundreds of ruthless men were preying on decent folks across the territories. He had been ordered to hunt down a gun-toting floozie. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that Fancy's dining-car antics had been reported to the U.S. marshal's office by irate passengers, who had blamed Cord for the robbery's success. Never in Cord's thirty years had he felt like such a laughingstock. Even if he did manage to arrest the hoyden before she reached Mexico and tried to unload the minting plates there, he wasn't sure he could ever repair his reputation. He only hoped to God he could keep his humiliation from his brothers. He didn't think he could bear it if they learned what a jackass "purdy Miss Holleday" had made out of him.

  His face heated at the thought.

  "If you boys are so bent on being deputies, then you best start following orders. Think you can do that for once?"

  They nodded, their stubbled faces bright with anticipation.

  "Good. Then keep close."

  He crossed the heat-warped porch and halted before the swinging doors. As eager as he was to teach Fancy Holleday a lesson, his first priority would have to be his brothers' safety.

  Warily, he surveyed the room beyond. Cattle season was still a month away, so drovers were sparse among the buffalo hunters, desperadoes, and whores. Stale beer and tobacco juice had attracted a never-ending stream of flies that buzzed past the open shutters and lighted on the bar. Behind the pistol-packing barkeep, a cracked mirror had been whitewashed with the words "Lunch, 25¢."

  "Is that her, Cord?" Zack whispered, pointing at a flirtatious young woman who sat playing five-card stud at a center table.

  Cord nodded. That was her, all right. He would have recognized that wicked little hellcat smile anywhere. It was the same smile she had worn when she'd cocked her pistol at his pecker. Just last night, he'd had another nightmare about that .32 and had sat bolt upright, sweating like a plow mule.

  Nope, he wasn't likely to forget that gun. Or that grin. He figured the little minx must always smile like that when she was up to no good. Like cheating.

  He was too far away, of course, to tell if she was really palming cards, but he wouldn't have put it past her. His only consolation came from watching the poker players, who were faring no better against her than he had. None of them seemed to realize they were being fleeced.

  Of course, there was always the possibility that none of them cared they were being fleeced, Cord thought dryly. He might not have minded a fleecing so much, either, if Fancy Holleday sat an arm's length from him with her corset rigged like that. Plump and delicately powdered, her breasts rose and fell hypnotically in a bodice that threatened to spit out buttons.

  He tore his gaze away. Only then did he notice Wes. The boy was grinning like a coyote in a henhouse.

  "Hoo-dogie. That poster didn't say nothing 'bout teats the size of—"

  "That's enough, boy."

  Zack chuckled, and Cord glared at him in turn. He didn't need to be reminded that his would-be prisoner was a desirable woman—or that the brothers he'd been raising since childhood were turning into men.

  "All right, listen up." He pulled them into a huddle beside the doors. "Here's the plan. Zack goes in first. Then you, Wes. You cross to different sides of the room. You stand with your backs to the wall. You don't talk to anybody; you don't look slantways at anybody. You keep yourselves out of trouble while I make the arrest. Got that?"

  "Shoot," Wes grumbled. "That sounds about as exciting as shooing flies off the back porch."

  "You want excitement? I'll tan your hide."

  "Aunt Lally tried to wash out his mouth with soap once." Zack smirked, winking. "That was exciting."

  "Tattletale!"

  "Donkey brain."

  Cord frowned. He was sorely tempted to lock them both in the local jail, but a three-nail hoosegow wouldn't keep two Rawlins brothers safe for long.

  "You boys done cuss-fighting?" He shot them each a warning look.

  They fell silent instantly, nodding as they reddened.

  "Good. Then let's get started."

  His hand on his holster, Cord watched as Zack pushed inside. The boy could usually be counted on to follow orders. Still, Cord found himself holding his breath until Zack skirted the billiard table and took a stance near the caged rattlesnake that gave the saloon its name.

  Wes followed a few moments later. To Cord's consternation, the boy stopped to tip his hat to a flock of soiled doves. Cord thought he would have to go in and drag the rascal off by his ear, but Wes eventually remembered his mission. Amidst a great deal of cooing, he swaggered off and propped a shoulder against the saloon's half-hinged alley door.

  Cord released a ragged breath. At last it was his turn.

  Hooking his thumbs over his gun belt, he shouldered his way through the crowd. A drunkard lurched forward, waving a handful of markers in his face, but Cord shook his head and pressed on. Most of the wagers being made by the game's spectators favored Fancy. The gamblers were lauding her a
s the "Princess of Poker" and "Fortune's Fancy."

  "Huckster Holleday," he thought grimly, was closer to the mark.

  He halted behind his quarry. He'd arrived just in time to watch her shuffle. Flawlessly manicured, her fingers cut, riffled, and folded the deck like greased lightning. Cord found it impossible to follow every gesture.

  In his gut, though, he knew she was cheating. He also knew he would risk a shootout with her admirers if he interrupted her deal. In order to haul her off without protest, he would have to prove she wasn't playing square.

  He forced himself to bide his time, watching her silver ring flash as she doled out the first round of cards.

  "Uh... I'll bet a dollar," said the charcoal-smeared giant sitting to her left.

  "A whole dollar," she purred, her voice throbbing with false praise.

  The giant blushed like a schoolboy, and Cord recognized Dolf Vandermeer, the town blacksmith. The other players, a grizzled drifter and a sun-blackened mule skinner named Turk, both raised Vandermeer's bet.

  Fancy dealt again. Cord watched her narrowly through the next three rounds. He was careful to keep his shadow off her cards, a precaution born of habit rather than necessity. She was too busy flirting and carrying on to notice a lawman at her rear. The girl was in her glory, all right. Judging by his neighbors, there wasn't a man in the saloon who wasn't smitten. With her heart-shaped face and violet-blue eyes, she had every rowdy fantasizing about meeting her in a hayloft. If that tongue of hers hadn't come with the package, Cord might have hankered for a rendezvous too. He wondered if there was a man in the room who could straighten her out and settle her down.

  "And the dealer takes a lady," she concluded, setting the rest of the deck on the table. "Possible three-of-a-kind."

  It was the fifth and final round. Vandermeer had already folded. He looked glassy-eyed from staring down Fancy's cleavage. Turk was drooling like a coonhound. Only the drifter seemed unmoved by her charms. In fact, the man looked downright sinister as he watched her play, his hat slanting across his gunmetal-gray eyes. Cord racked his brain, trying to remember which wanted poster the man resembled most.

  But if Fancy was unnerved by the drifter's stare, she didn't let on. She simply treated him to a loins-stirring smile.

  "Your jacks bet again, Mr. Slade."

  Slade's expression never wavered. He threw a double eagle onto the pile of gold pieces. Turk chewed his bottom lip. Shrugging, he finally called. Cord estimated that the kitty was well worth two hundred dollars when it came Fancy's turn to wager.

  "You have quite a show of might there, Mr. Slade, with your three jacks and a king. I so adore a man of might," she crooned, lacing her fingers beneath her chin. "But luck is a lady, so they say. So I'll see your twenty dollars, sir, and raise you twenty."

  Cord arched a brow. She'd made a helluva bet, considering she only had two queens showing against Slade's three jacks—and his possible full house. Did she have the third queen or was she bluffing? Cord wasn't sure, but he would have wagered a month's worth of pay that Fancy knew what card Slade was holding. The only question was, How?

  Turk grimaced and folded. Slade fingered his coins. His eyes were so cold that Cord worried he might have a dead prisoner on his hands if he didn't end Fancy's cheating soon.

  "All right, woman, I call," the drifter growled, tossing in his gold. "Whatcha got?"

  With a deft flick of her wrist, Fancy turned over her hidden card. The queen of hearts fell into place by her sisters.

  "My calling card," she said sweetly.

  Slade's face darkened. She resumed her coquettish pose. The glint of her ring attracted Cord's eye once more, and he suddenly understood how she must have rigged the game.

  "Hold on, Slade," he called. "Don't bother to show Miss Holleday your hand. She knows you don't have that full house. Fact is"—with the speed of a gunfighter, he grabbed her wrist and turned the flat, polished surface of her ring to the lantern—"she used this little mirror here to see exactly what she did deal you."

  A grumble of discontent circled the crowd. Slade hiked an eyebrow. But not until Vandermeer lurched to his feet did Cord realize the extent of Fancy's popularity in this woman-scarce cowtown.

  "Listen here, lawman," the giant rumbled, "wearing a badge don't give you the right to call a lady a cheat."

  "You misunderstood me, Dolf. I called Miss Holleday a cheat."

  The goliath was unarmed, and Cord stared him down. Fancy looked a little shaken to see her champion sit. She was a brassy piece, though, and she didn't let her worry show for long. She twisted in her chair, and he almost admired the saucy way she raised her chin at him.

  "Well, well, well."

  Eyes as purple as a summer thundercloud raked him from hat to toe. "Marshal Rawlins, isn't it? Why yes, I do believe it is. I don't often forget a"—her dimples peeked—"pair of chaps."

  Whoops of laughter erupted around him. Cord carved his lips into a tight smile. She was brassy, all right. Brassy and tarnished.

  "The game's over, darlin'. Give the nice gentlemen back their money, and we'll be on our way."

  "Just what did you have in mind, handsome?"

  "A date with a Nevada judge."

  "Do tell?" She lowered fluttering lashes over anxious eyes. "And would this be a marrying judge?"

  More hurrahing from the crowd. She was playing to please her audience. No doubt she thought her supporters were her only hope. And she would have been right—if he'd been the kind of man who let roughnecks and rowdies set his knees to knocking.

  "Can't say that he is."

  "Pity." She shrugged with catlike grace. "I guess you'll have to ride the lonely trail alone then, cowboy."

  "I got a better idea. How 'bout I get my rope?"

  The mockery froze on her face.

  Slade struck a match. It hissed into life in the breathless silence.

  "Is cheating a federal crime now, Rawlins?"

  Cord glared at the drifter. In spite of the casual way Slade puffed his smoke, his demeanor was full of challenge.

  "You know a lot about crime, mister?"

  "Mebbe," Slade drawled, his lips twisting in a thin smile.

  Cord couldn't help but notice how the man's amusement never lit his eyes.

  "Mr. Slade's a bounty hunter," Fancy said, her voice dripping honey for her newest champion. "Sheriff Applegate sends him out after cutthroats and road agents. Isn't that right, Wilton?"

  Slade ignored her. Propping his heels up on the table, he leaned back in his chair. "Seems like a waste of time for a federal lawman to be chasing down a card sharp, don't it? 'Specially one wearing a skirt."

  "I got my reasons," Cord said gruffly. He didn't much like bounty hunters. Most of them were no better than paid assassins. Some were so greedy that they killed at random, bringing in any corpse that might fit the description on a wanted poster.

  He kept a wary eye on the manhunter as he turned back to Fancy. "Well? You coming peaceably? 'Cause it wouldn't grieve me any to have to hog-tie you."

  "How manly of you." Her smile looked tense in her come-hither facade. "Tell me, Marshal. Do you tie up all your women? Or just the ones who get away?"

  Someone snickered. Cord ignored the man. Instead, he took a deliberate step closer to Fancy. Leaning down, he placed his hands on each arm of her chair.

  "You know something?" he said quietly. "I thought you were smart. I thought you could spot an ace in the hole."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning I just might be the only thing standing between you and a tomahawk on the trail."

  "Now that sounds too good to be true."

  He snorted. "Don't go celebrating just yet, darlin'. You aren't done wrangling with me." He yanked her chair around and was rewarded to hear her sharp intake of breath. "On your feet. I won't be saying it again."

  He thought she'd turned a full shade paler. He'd been waiting a long time for her comeuppance, and he planned to enjoy every moment of it. He watched her eyes flicker left, th
en right, as if she were seeking a savior—or gauging her chance of escape. The odds were against her this time.

  He straightened, folding his arms across his chest, and wondered smugly what she would do. Would she get weepy and beg for his mercy? Would she turn to sugar and start to apologize?

  He should have known better, of course. She gazed past him toward the swinging doors, and a sudden flood of relief washed the uneasiness from her face.

  "Er... Marshal, you didn't happen to stop by Sheriff Applegate's office on your way to harass me, did you?"

  He eyed her suspiciously. "I don't answer to Tarrant County."

  "Then mebbe it's time you did, mister," boomed a canyon-deep voice from behind.

  "Who the—"

  The sound of a priming rifle jarred Cord's spine. He froze in midturn.

  "I'd just as soon shoot you as look at you, mister, so keep your hands high."

  Fancy laughed, the sound warm and sweet with triumph. "Why, Sheriff Applegate. What took you so long?"

  Cord ground his teeth. If she thought a swaggering, granddaddy of a sheriff was going to keep her out of a federal reformatory, she had another thing coming.

  "Blast it, Applegate. It's Cord. Cord Rawlins. You going to let me turn around?"

  "Cord?" The sheriff sounded skeptical. "I heard you were scalped by Comanches."

  "Then you heard wrong."

  "Hellfire." Amusement crept into Applegate's gruff voice. "I shoulda known you'd be too ornery to die. Turn around, son, and let me look at you."

  Cord found himself grinning as he obeyed. Fourteen years ago, he'd hunted cattle rustlers alongside Clem Applegate. A prosperous rancher, the man had been a law unto himself in Tarrant County. Then the war had come, and with it confiscation—or Reconstruction, as the Yankees liked to call it. Clem had lost his livestock, his spread, and just about everything else, except for his belly.

  Yep, Applegate was still as wide and red as a barn, with whiskers big enough to match. Of course, the sheriff's beard was a little grayer now, his brow more lined, but Cord felt certain that the sixty-year-old lawman could still shoot out the eye of a rattler at fifty paces.