But then, a life like his didn't usually end with an invitation to join the saints.
"All right, the hall's clear," Cass said.
He stepped across the threshold while Collie rummaged between his watermelons, presumably to reposition his .38.
"Quit messing around in there!" Cass grabbed the boy's arm and dragged him toward the L-shaped bend that led to the stairs. "And hunch your shoulders. You're supposed to be a doddering old Mee-Maw. How come you're waddling like a pregnant duck?"
"I don't want to step on Vandy's tail!"
A whiskered snout was poking out from under Collie's hem.
"Honest to God, I can't take you any—"
A muffled thump reached Cass's ears. It was followed by a suspicious scuffling.
Collie cocked his head, a sure sign he was listening. "Window," he mouthed silently.
Cass nodded, removing the trigger guards from his .45s. He'd learned to trust Collie's weasel ears. The kid's sense of hearing would have been downright legendary if he hadn't considered it one of his greatest weapons—and therefore, his biggest secret.
"Stay here," Cass whispered, edging along the wall.
When he poked his head around the corner, he spied a figure with chestnut sideburns. Dressed in a sodbuster's bowler and a brown linen sack suit, the man was emerging from the hardy camouflage of a live oak and swinging a leg over the window sill. A perverse sense of amusement curved Cass's lips. He'd caught a thief breaking into the hotel.
All his life, he'd wanted to be a Ranger. To fight for right. To make the world a safe place for little kiddies to play. That altruistic side couldn't let some desperado barge into the hotel and loot innocent folks.
Cass waited until the thief had committed himself, swinging his second leg over the sill and landing on catlike feet. Only then did Cass swagger around the corner.
"What's the matter, mister? Stairs aren't enough exercise?"
The thief caught his breath, his body going rigid. Cass had a revolver in his fist before the man could think about his own weapons.
"Hands," Cass barked.
Slowly, reluctantly, the thief spread his gloves in the universal sign of surrender. His demeanor was docile enough, but the rapid flutter of the linen draping his chest betrayed his agitation. The globe of an oil lamp burned behind his shoulders, so Cass couldn't see the intruder's eyes beneath the shadows of his hat.
"Not your lucky day, eh, compadre? I'm thinking your guardian angel up and skedaddled."
"I'll frisk him," Collie volunteered, lurching around the corner like Frankenstein's monster, thanks to the 50-pound coon cavorting between his boots.
Cass had half a mind to wallop them both. "Confound it, Miss McAffee, is that how your mama taught a lady to behave?"
The thief chuckled, a low, husky sound that reminded Cass of whiskey, scarlet, and sin all rolled into one.
"Looks like McAffee found Admiral Farragut's lost torpedoes."
"Shut up," Collie said.
"Mind your manners, cockroach," Cass growled at the thief. "You're talking to a lady."
Straight white teeth flashed in that graying beard. "Somebody's got his facts all tangled."
Cass frowned. Something about the thief's voice wasn't right. For one thing, it wasn't scratchy enough to be old. For another, it was more contralto than tenor.
In fact, the more Cass studied his captive, the more things didn't add up. The thief's graying, auburn hair and sideburns suggested a man past his prime, yet the intruder's gloves and boots were far from man-sized; his shoulders were as slender as a girl's; and his baggy coat made the average sack suit look tailored.
Cass took a step forward. He couldn't tell from the drape of the linen if the thief wore a six-shooter strapped to his hip, but Cass wouldn't have bet against those odds. Besides, a .45 wasn't his only danger. Knives, blinding powders, knuckle dusters and all manner of other weapons could be hidden up a man's sleeve—including a one-shot derringer that was just as deadly as a Peacemaker at close range.
He glared at the thief. "So you're a wise guy, eh?"
"Just shoot him," Collie interjected, knowing full well Cass wouldn't.
"Junior's awful grumpy," the thief drawled. "Must've missed his baby nap."
"I'll plug you myself!"
"Settle down," Cass snapped at Collie, but he was only half listening to the boy's rant. Something about the thief kept niggling at the back of his mind. Cass thought it might have been the man's wit. It reminded him poignantly of Sadie.
He cursed himself. Now wasn't the time to let grief distract him. Sadie had made a fool of him more than once. She'd even betrayed him, telling Sterne about his murder warrant when the Ranger had ridden into Dodge City, bearing a Special Deputy U.S. Marshal's commission. After a hurt like that, Cass shouldn't have cared what happened to Sadie.
But no matter how he tried, Cass couldn't stop thinking about the first woman he'd ever kissed, about those long-lost days of star-gazing, berry-picking, and infatuated innocence back in their childhood home of Pilot Grove. A yawning emptiness consumed his soul. The nights had lost their thrill because he could never love, war, and make up again with the Devil's Red-Haired Daughter.
Dragging a ragged breath into his lungs, he forced himself to rein in such useless conjectures.
"What's under your coat?" he snapped at the thief.
The ghost of a dimple peeked from the shadows beneath the man's derby. "The usual."
"Want to be more specific?"
"See for yourself."
Cass's pulse quickened. This conversation was familiar—macabrely familiar. The only difference was, his memory had to do with a Dodge City brothel and a skimpy lace negligee that had all but stopped his heart.
"I'll make you want me, Sadie," he'd threatened, his loins hurting even worse than his pride.
She'd laughed up at him with those wicked, golden tiger's eyes. "You'll always be that green-as-grass boy I taught how to rut."
Cass forced himself to drag his wits about him. He glared at the thief. "Take off your hat."
"You want it?" Another saucy dimple peeked. "Come and get it, hotshot."
Cass's patience was rapidly unraveling. He stalked closer, defying popguns, blinding powder, and anything else the thief might throw. "Think you're something special, eh?"
"If you say so."
A breeze stirred the draperies. The masculine scents of leather and horse wafted to Cass, along with the feminine fragrance of rosehips.
Sadie's favorite tea.
Cass frowned.
Now he was close enough to notice anomalies beneath the man's derby: cheeks too smooth to be a graybeard's. A mustache that was just a hair off balance. Lips that were pink and kissably soft.
Cass halted, his heart slamming into his ribs. His brain told his senses they were liars, but his heart couldn't give up the hope. Sadie and Sterne were old flames. If she'd survived the Satin Siren, if she'd feared for her life, maybe she would have disguised herself to seek the Ranger for protection.
Cass reached a shaking hand. He knocked the derby off the thief's head.
Eyes as hot as golden brands burned into his. Cass sucked in his breath. In the next instant, a boot struck his forearm. His gun went flying. The second drop-kick plowed into his midsection like a battering ram.
"Son of a—" Cass stumbled to his knees, winded.
Sadie fled for the stairs, a snarling coon in hot pursuit. Desperately, Cass dug inside a trouser pocket and hurled pecans after Vandy's head. The eager moocher veered, scrabbling over the glint of gold that spilled from Sadie's neck. Collie muttered something about traitors and reached for the pistol in his bodice.
"No!" Cass tackled the boy's legs. They crashed to the carpet, rolling over Sadie's necklace in a tangle of limbs and lace.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Collie struggled to free the gun arm Cass had pinned.
"That's Sadie!"
"Sadie's dead!"
She paused to look b
ack, that wicked dimple flirting with her lips. One last smirk for his embarrassment. One last sigh for all that might have been. Then, with an audacious wink, she wrenched open the door to her freedom.
"You'll wish you were dead when I'm through with you!" Cass bellowed after that lusciously sweet ass.
Her husky laughter echoed in the stairwell.
Collie freed a fist and punched him in the head. "Get off me, lunatic!"
By this time, a dozen hotel guests in nightcaps were poking their heads into the hall, watching in horror as Cass and Collie flopped on the carpet like a couple of beached whales. Cass cursed vehemently, trying to free his legs from the strips of taffeta his spurs were shredding.
Just when he didn't think a man could get any more humiliated, the elevator bell dinged. Marshal Wright stepped into the hall, accompanied by none other than Rexford Sterne.
The cagey old wolf raised pewter eyebrows. "Well now. What have we here?"
Cass froze as gun hammers clicked above his head. His arch nemesis loomed over him, grinning like a small dog with a big bone.
"Why, if it isn't the Rebel Rutter. And Coon Collie, too. Doing it in public now, boys?" A rare levity lighted the ex-Ranger's steel-colored eyes. "Damn, kid. You sure make one ugly woman."
Chapter 5
For a man who wanted to wear a badge, Cass had seen the inside of way too many jail cells. Usually, he was arrested for misdemeanors, like dancing a drunken jig on a faro table, or taking potshots at some crabby old merchant's sign. Townsfolk with railroad spikes up their butts didn't like roostered cowboys causing mischief—which was fine by Cass. Arrest got him a free meal and a free bunk, where he could sleep off his busthead.
Needless to say, after spending so much idle time behind bars, Cass knew how to break out of jail. He carried three lock picks in his clothing. Most tin-stars, he was sorry to say, were dumber than fence posts. Finding Widdy #1, in his hatband, satisfied them. The rare few who kept searching never found Widdy #3, which Cass had stashed inside his boot heel.
Nevertheless, Cass didn't bust himself out of jail unless he had some emergency reason to reach the outside. Losing a prisoner was an ugly blemish on a lawman's career, and Cass figured that keeping friendly relations was good business. He knew his failings, and sure-as-shootin', he was going to get drunk and wind up in jail again. In fact, the first time he'd seen the inside of Sidney Wright's hoosegow was back in '78. At the time, Wright had been a deputy in Round Rock. He'd gotten promoted after Cass tipped him off about the whereabouts of notorious bank robber, Sam Bass. Needless to say, Sid had a soft spot for Cass. More importantly, he knew he could count on Cass's guns in a pinch, when serious outlaws were stealing payrolls or endangering honest folks.
Sid also knew his iron palace lacked certain creature comforts—like ventilation. So the marshal took pity on his only prisoners, hauling in a bucket of ice and some bottles of sarsaparilla (most of which Vandy guzzled, burping bubbles the rest of the night.) Breaking open a new deck of cards, Sid dealt rounds of Coon-Can while he commiserated with Cass about overbearing Rangers and conniving redheads. They chewed the fat about the drought, Lampasas's booming tourist trade, and Sid's vigilante-granger problem until 3 a.m., at which time Collie, with his usual flair for the cussid, hurled a boot at their heads and bellowed that he was trying to get some shut-eye.
Around 10 o'clock the next morning, Sid was rousing them with cups of java when the jail door crashed open. Poppy Westerfield stood on the threshold, disrupting the friendly, all-male atmosphere. Beneath a jaunty, peacock-colored bonnet and fashionably frizzed bangs, her emerald eyes glittered like ice.
"Marshal Wright, are you, or are you not, responsible for the safety of the dignitaries who visit your town?"
"Well, of course I'm responsible—"
"Good," Poppy snapped, sailing into Sid's office like a battleship at full steam. "Because when my husband gets gunned down by a vigilante granger, I shall see that your head rolls!"
Sid blinked.
Cass coughed to hide his amusement. He suspected no woman had ever talked to Sid in such a manner, especially in his office.
But Poppy's temerity was born from confidence. Petite and slender, with a mature beauty that could still turn men's heads, the 41-year-old social maven thrived in her role. As the wife of a rich and powerful senator, she didn't resort to eye-batting, tears, or swoons to control "lesser men"—which was the term she used to describe anyone who ranked lower than Baron in public office.
"In precisely one hour, my husband is due to give his speech at the sodbuster's convention," Poppy announced in an imperious manner. "Considering the way tempers are simmering in this town, Mr. Cassidy's guns may be the only things that stand between my dear, beloved Baron and a bushwhacker's bullet. I want you to release Cass this minute. This minute, do you hear me?"
Collie never missed a stroke with his whittling knife. "Don't put yourself out on my account, ma'am."
Cass nearly snorted java up his nose.
"Now see here, Mrs. Westerfield." Sid didn't look half as amused. "Cass and Collie got charged with vandalism and three separate counts of disturbing the peace by the Adjutant-General himself—"
"Rexford Sterne retired from the Ranger Force nearly a month ago," Poppy fired back, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. "To challenge my husband's re-election campaign, as you'll recall. Unless, of course, you've been apprised of some palm-greasing skullduggery that Baron should bring to Governor Ireland's attention?"
Sid's bearded, sun-weathered face grew as red as his suspenders, which strained across a beef-fed belly. Ranger or no, Sterne was a man to be reckoned with in Texas. Nowhere in the Lone Star State did the former Adjutant-General hold more sway than in his birthplace of Lampasas. Ever since Baron had gotten the notion to prove his clout by "taking the waters" and wooing Lampasas voters away from Sterne, Sid had been walking a tightrope between two looming shadows: the Ranger's and the senator's.
"Now Mrs. Westerfield, don't go putting words in my mouth," Sid backpedaled. "Retired or no, Rexford Sterne is still called general around these parts."
"Erroneously." Poppy sniffed. "It wouldn't surprise me one bit if he was encouraging those granger assassins you're incapable of controlling in this town."
Sid looked like he wanted to knock her on her bustle. "Allow me to reassure you, Mrs. Westerfield. I hired six extra deputies to supervise the Texas Volunteer Guard as they patrol the convention and the hotels. You are perfectly safe in Lampasas. And so is Senator Westerfield."
"Forgive me if I don't share your faith in your pack of amateur tin-stars." Poppy wrestled a folded paper from her reticule and tossed the document, along with a $20 gold piece, on Sid's desk. "You're wasting my time. My husband and I are due at the luncheon. Release Mr. Cassidy."
Sid grunted when he read the letter. He even looked relieved. "Looks like you got yourself an attorney, Cass. Mrs. Westerfield's attorney," Sid added archly, turning an oversized key in Cass's cell door.
Cass darted a measuring glance at Poppy. She stood like an avenging angel, limned in her triumphant corona of sunbeams beneath the block-style letters that read, Marshal's Office, on Sid's window. When Cass's gaze collided with hers, her great bosom heaved. He was quick to notice the flush rising in her cheeks. A man like him didn't need much imagination to guess what a love-starved matron like Poppy wanted in exchange for her favor.
Next, Cass glanced furtively at Collie. Apparently, Poppy hadn't bothered to post the boy's bond. The kid sat cross-legged on the limestone floor of the adjacent cell with his half-whittled critter and his ring-tailed bunk mate.
"An attorney, huh?" Cass settled more comfortably on his cot with his legs stretched out, his back against the wall, and his coffee cup balanced on his lap. "Why, that's mighty fine, Sid." He took another sip of bellywash. "What'd the law wrangler say about springing my ward?"
"Ward, my ass," Collie muttered.
"Nuthin'," Sid said gamely.
"Nothing, huh? No
w that can't be right. Why don't you read that high-falutin' paper again?"
"Mr. Cassidy," Poppy intervened impatiently, "my husband is waiting for us outside the bank."
Cass's coyote instincts were on the alert: they'd noticed a peculiar phenomenon. Whenever Poppy mentioned "my husband" in an official capacity, she seemed to be referring to herself.
"Mrs. Westerfield," he drawled, "I'm beholding to you, ma'am. Really I am." He flashed his most ingratiating smile. "But you see, Collie's my charge. My responsibility. Surely a genteel lady like yourself, who cares about doing good Christian works and helping folks get out of jail, can understand why I can't leave an impressionable boy of 15—"
"Seventeen," Collie growled.
"—In the hoosegow by his lonesome," Cass finished smoothly. "Sid's likely to arrest some cutpurse or road agent! And then all those good Christian morals I've been trying to instill in the boy would get snuffed out like a candle in a hurricane."
Cass couldn't say who looked more annoyed by his speech, Collie the Thief or Poppy the Barracuda. But civility—or at least the appearance of civility—was more important to a senator's wife than to an authority-hating youth.
"Of course, Mr. Cassidy," Poppy said briskly. "I quite see your point. I shall have my attorney correct the oversight. Release the boy, marshal."
"But is that legal, Mrs. Westerfield?" Cass gushed in his best greenhorn's voice.
"My husband will make it legal," she retorted, tossing another double eagle on Sid's desk. "I trust that will cover the expense."
Collie shot him a warning look, and Cass winked. Why, any fella with eyes could see Poppy was eating out of the palm of his hand!
Sid unlocked the kid's door. Collie gathered his hat and boots. As he reached for his knapsack, he leaned his blond head close enough to the cells' shared bars for Cass to whisper:
Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) Page 6