Peeking at her cards, Sadie was hard-pressed not to sigh. They were crap, of course. Having lived above a saloon most of her life, she'd been playing high-stakes card games since the age of 13. She knew the value of a Poker Face, so she was careful to keep hers firmly in place. Besides, no one liked competition more than Cass.
"I'll see your hundred, and raise you a hundred," she said, tossing her chips into the kitty. She'd be damned if she lost to him. The Pinkertons gave her an allowance for gambling. Rarely was she called upon to spend it, but when she did, her bluffing skills usually earned the agency money.
"Harvest must've been good this year, granger." He met her stakes and demanded two cards.
Thinks he has a decent hand, does he?
She dealt herself two cards and prayed for queens. "Some things ripen with age."
"Like women?"
"Like cheese."
He chuckled. The leading bet was his again, so he tossed another hundred dollars into the pot. "Don't know too many men who wear sun-shades in a poker game."
"You calling me a cheat?"
"You wanna wrassle over it?"
"You'd only get whupped."
He flashed all those pretty teeth. "That's why I brought an extra lariat."
Oh, he really was a cut-up.
Doing her best to ignore the delicious tingles skipping down her spine, she drilled him with her best no-nonsense glare. "I call. Show your hand, cowpoke."
"Poke being the operative word." With a deft finger he flipped his cards. "Full house."
Damn.
"Double or nothing?" he taunted in provocative tones.
Ever-conscious of her cover, she shot him a withering glare. "Only if you watch your manners. I have a reputation to keep."
"You should've thought of that before you grew a beard." He poured her a drink then scooped up the cards. He handled the pasteboards like a professional, letting them fly between his hands in a rippling arc of red and white.
"Impressive. Who taught you how to shuffle like a sharper? Doc?"
"You mean, Holliday?" Cass chuckled. "Naw. Collie did."
She nearly snorted whiskey up her nose. "That kid scares me."
"Not so loud. He'll only gloat."
She laughed, tossing back her shot. Cass dealt. The cards flicked so fast across the table, they blurred. This time when she peeked, she had a shot at a full house or a three-pair. The Ace of Spades was showing on Cass's side of the table.
She bet one hundred.
"I'll see you, and raise you two hundred," he said.
She rolled her eyes. Of course you do.
"Two cards," she said, and he dealt again. She got her third ten.
"Dealer takes one." He slapped down the deck. "So, Granger. About this red-headed sister of yours—"
"We were talking about sisters?" She tossed her stake into the pot.
"We were talking about women."
"I thought we were talking about cardsharps."
"That's 'cause you hear only what you want to hear," he retorted.
Donkey butt. How many times have I accused you of the same thing over the years?
"So what happened to the girl?" he demanded.
"What girl?"
"Your firebrand of a sister."
She shook her head. "Sad story."
"I'm listening."
"You know what happened to Maisy."
He had the good grace to redden. Back in Dodge, he'd gone snooping through her bedroom and found the untitled ballad she'd written as a catharsis about her drowned twin. After reading lyrics like, "Secret angel of my heart, I hate that we are parted," Cass had leaped to the conclusion she'd been writing love songs about Rex. The blow-up that night had been cataclysmic, and the beginning of the end of their affair.
"Not that sister," he persisted, tossing another two-hundred dollars into the pot. "I'm talking about the sister who's too ornery to die. The sister who wouldn't pay the devil his due."
"I like her already."
"I couldn't help but notice a certain family resemblance."
"What sharp little eyes you have."
"Just wait 'til you feel my teeth."
She ducked her head to hide her smirk. "I'll see your two hundred, and raise you two more."
But he ignored her bet. He was leaning closer now. The air between them shimmered with heat. Sparks and cinders, she thought a trifle breathlessly. Lucifire was lurking in the blazing blue depths of those eyes.
"Is your sister in trouble?" he demanded quietly.
The fire in that stare was making her grow hotter by the second—partly from guilt, and partly from the insane urge to grab a fistful of his sun-streaked hair and kiss him. She had to remind herself Cass was dangerous. That he worked for the enemy. That she was wearing a beard.
"Trouble's my sister's middle name," she rallied.
"Can't argue with you there, Match Head."
"Now you're pissing me off."
"Good. I haven't lost my touch." His dimples peeked, but his eyes fairly smoked. "If we're being watched—" he lowered his voice "—all I need's a simple answer: Yes or no?"
She squirmed. Now she felt like she was sitting on a furnace. If she answered, "No," she'd have to explain why she'd been climbing through a hotel window last night to avoid Tito, who'd been blocking the stairs. If she answered, "Yes," she'd have to deal with the unmitigated mess of Cass snooping around and learning things he shouldn't. She could never let him get that close again, even if he sincerely wanted to protect her.
Gulping a breath, she opted for the coward's way out: Diversion. "Quit stalling, hotshot. Place your bet."
"I bet your sister's in way over her saucy red head."
"Only when you're around, Romeo."
"You don't say?"
"I just did."
But he wouldn't back down. "So what kind of trouble are we talking about?"
She waved a vague hand. "You know women."
"I like to think I do."
"You're too modest by far."
"You can't believe everything you hear."
"Except in your case."
"Aw. That's sweet." Once again, he refused to be sidetracked. "Maybe you could put in a good word for me. Tell your sister I have friends. Friends who could fix any trouble she's in."
"Are you referring to Big Iron and the Peacemaker?" She arched a suggestive eyebrow. "Or the pistol in between?"
His chuckle was wolfish. "Now there's a thought. But I was thinking more along the lines of the law."
"You know the law?"
"I know folks who make the laws."
"Well, I'll be dinged."
He drove his point home. "My folks could help your folks go a long way."
She was glad for the spectacles because the tint disguised her uneasiness. She'd been hoping Cass didn't know how Baron conspired to kill off his rivals. But Cass was talking like a confidence man now.
"All the way to Ranger headquarters?" she demanded. She couldn't quite keep the accusation from her voice.
A blue norther rolled between them.
It wasn't hard to guess what Baron was using to exploit Cass's loyalty. From the first day she'd met 12-year-old William "Billy" Cassidy, trotting after her like a puppy on a string, leaving wildflowers on her brothel windowsill, naming the sky's brightest stars after her, Billy had talked her ears off about three things: sex, guns, and his dream to become a Texas Ranger.
Recalling the idealistic youth Cass had been, Sadie supposed it had been inevitable that he'd turn vigilante. That he'd feel responsible, as the last surviving member of his clan, to take on the patriarch's nickname—and the patriarch's duty of hunting down the man who'd murdered his 18-year-old cousin. When Cass had plugged Abel Ainsworth, he'd not only made an enemy of prominent Ku Klux Klansmen in northeast Texas, he'd shattered his dream of becoming a Ranger.
Now Baron was preying on Cass's childhood dream, dangling a Ranger badge like a carrot under his nose. If Baron learned Rex was tr
ying to pin a murder charge on him, Baron would do more than remove Rex from the Force. He'd have Rex silenced—by Cass!
"You got a problem with Rangers?" Cass demanded.
"I never have a problem with Rangers," she said grimly. "As long as they haven't tarnished the badge."
"Then wake up and smell the java."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means your Ranger friend's a big phony."
"Forgive me if I question the word of a man who's been holding a grudge for four years."
"And with good reason."
She rolled her eyes. "Time to change your tune, cowpoke. You're like a rusty old gate, swinging in the wind."
"Maybe if you listened for a spell, you'd finally hear the truth."
"All right. I'll bite. What truth?"
"Do I have to spell it out for you? Your Ranger's got greased palms."
"That's ridiculous! Rex would never take a bribe! He's the most honorable, upstanding man in all of Texas!"
Cass snorted. "You'd have to have sawdust for brains to believe a whopper like that. Find yourself a new protector. Sterne's days are numbered."
Sadie's heart stuttered. Was that a threat? Was Cass threatening Rex?
"Just so we're clear—" she had to force the words from her constricting throat "—if you mess with him, you mess with me."
Cass shoved back his chair. Anger punctuated that economical movement. All his neat little piles of red, white, and green chips toppled, scattering with a flimsy chinking sound.
"Glad we cleared the air," he said pleasantly—too pleasantly. He set the Stetson on his head.
"Cass, wait!"
He paused in mid-stride, his broad back like a wall, his features chiseled by shadow. When he locked stares with her over his shoulder, an arctic blast came from that ice-blue glare.
"I don't want our friendship to end this way," she pleaded.
"That's been your problem since the beginning, darlin'. The loyalty you show your friends."
Hard-lipped and diamond-eyed, he tipped his hat before striding away.
She muttered an oath and shoved her cards across the table. A crushing sense of frustration weighted her chest as she watched him slam out the door. Cass wanted to believe Baron's lies.
Her coyote had been thoroughly snared.
Chapter 8
The next morning, Sadie was in disguise again: this time, as a frumpy, gray-haired maid with a pillow for a paunch.
Doing her best not to think about Cass, and how she might be forced to arrest him, she shuffled around the lobby of the Grand Park Hotel in her white mobcap, ruffled apron, and navy-colored uniform. Occasionally, as conventioneers hurried past, she would swipe her feather duster with great exuberance over a Tiffany lamp shade or the eight-foot rack of a stuffed, longhorn steer. Her goal was to keep an eye on the stairwell. She figured Poppy Westerfield would have to descend from the second story eventually.
The Grand Park Hotel was one of the crowning, architectural achievements of Lampasas. It's only flaw appeared to be its lack of an elevator. Built by the railroad as a mecca for conventioneers, vacationers, and convalescents, the hotel looked like an enormous mansion with wrap-around porches and banner-bedecked turrets. Boasting 200 guest rooms and at least a dozen cabins, it sprawled across the southwestern corner of the city with a first-class dining room, ballroom, and recreational area, which offered boating, horseracing, shooting contests, and music recitals. As if these entertainments weren't enough, a guest could travel via boardwalk or mule-drawn trolley to one of the many mineral springs that had given rise to the city's reputation as a health resort.
Sadie had heard the rumor that Baron was ailing. Then again, he might have gone on his morning pilgrimage to Aquacia Bathhouse because a "secret" poker game was attracting conventioneers. About an hour ago, she'd watched the senator stride through the lobby with his gangly, bespectacled secretary. Pendleton had scurried to keep up, looking every inch like an underling, from his thinning, greased-back hair, to his starched chin-high collar, notebook, and stylus.
According to rumor, Baron treated Pendleton like family. The secretary had none of his own, probably because Pendleton spent every waking moment, managing Baron's business accounts. He was wholly devoted to the senator, and frankly, Sadie wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Pendleton covered up Baron's crimes.
She strained to hear what the prune-faced clerk was telling his boss, but she only heard intermittent phrases—something about an upcoming luncheon with railroad financiers. Apparently, Poppy had accepted the invitation on behalf of the senator, but he was refusing to cancel his javelina hunt with his cowboy cronies.
Cass trailed behind Baron and Pendleton, keeping an eye peeled for suspicious characters. As hard as she tried not to care, Sadie wasn't able to ignore how the heartthrob's dimpled grin quickened more than one fluttering hand-fan as ladies of all ages sighed in his wake. The knowledge that she, herself, looked like an apple barrel with a gray mop for hair didn't improve her mood.
Baron and his retinue had left the hotel 30 minutes ago. Now Sadie was waiting futilely for Collie to exit the building. She still wasn't sure where the hooligan was. Gritting her teeth, she imagined him ransacking her bedroom. She couldn't help but recall the shambles in which he and Cass had left Rex's room at the Globe Hotel. After grimly wading through what resembled a torpedo strike, the Ranger had retrieved one of the few personal indulgences he allowed himself: a silver flask. Finding his imported, Glenmorangie Scotch completely drained, Rex had raged: "It'll be a cold day in hell, before Cassidy wears a Ranger badge!"
Sadie couldn't blame Rex. Especially since Vandy had taken a crap on his pillow.
A heavy boot thumped behind her, interrupting her reverie. Ducking her head, Sadie pushed her spectacles up her nose and looked busy. Tito was exiting the stairwell with Poppy Westerfield on his arm.
For the first time, Sadie was able to lay her eyes on Baron's flesh-and-blood wife, rather than a sienna–toned daguerreotype. Sadie had to admit, Poppy was stunning, possessing all the traits Baron was rumored to covet in a woman.
Sadie studied the Galveston native. Aside from her bodice, Poppy was petite, with strawberry curls, meadow-green eyes, and an enviable waistline for a woman of 41 years—but then, Poppy had never borne children, according to her Pinkerton dossier. The senator's wife walked with an air of privilege in her elegant day dress. A shameless array of matching emeralds adorned her ears, wrists, and fingers. However, nothing more than a silver heart pendant graced her neck. She kept sliding the bauble along its chain, as if she were agitated.
Sadie thought back to a conversation she'd once had with Rex, when she'd been plying him with questions about the type of woman she needed to "portray" to attract Baron's attention.
"But what's Poppy really like?" she'd asked Rex. "You come from the same circle of privilege; I've never been to a political rally, much less a debutante's ball."
Rex had fidgeted, a sure sign his southern chivalry was vying with his lawman's code.
"Poppy grew up as the only child of a widowed attorney. She used to scribe legal documents for her father when she was a school girl, during the days when he couldn't afford the wages of a full-time clerk. Eventually, he built a prosperous legal practice and became renowned for manipulating tax laws in favor of shipping interests. However, the wealthy clientele whom he served never truly accepted him into their circle. Poppy got jilted by her first steady beau—a young sugar planter, who had political ambitions. He started courting a gal with Old Money—a textiles heiress, I believe.
"Poppy took it hard. She left Galveston to live with friends in Austin. She met Baron at some capitol shindig. Back then, he was little more than a cowboy with a dream, but he did manage to get himself elected to the Burnet City Council. He doted on Poppy. Fact is, he never did like competition, and he wound up punching out one of her suitors. Eventually, Baron won her hand. The same week he whisked her off on their honeymoon, her ex-beau
and his fiancé had a tragic boating accident."
Sadie nodded. She'd read Baron's biography in a dossier. "Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "but what kind of woman is Poppy? Prudish? Flirtatious? Maternal? Absent-minded?"
"She can be charming," Rex hedged.
"Can be?" Sadie hiked an eyebrow. "And when she's not being charming, what then?"
Rex hardened his jaw. "Cold. Ice-water cold."
Recalling that conversation now, Sadie looked for signs of that chilly social maven in the agitated woman, who was toying with the heart-shaped religious relic around her throat. Sadie wondered if Poppy was merely misunderstood. Losing three children in childbirth couldn't have been easy for a wife, who watched her husband choose progressively younger mistresses every year that she aged.
Thoughtfully, Sadie watched Tito hand his boss's wife into a private surrey. Only after the two of them trotted off into the sunshine did Sadie loose a ragged breath and hurry for the stairwell.
The Westerfields' suite was located on the hotel's top floor, where Baron had reserved five rooms in the west wing. Sadie had been forced to bribe a maid to learn Cass and Collie shared the room, flanking Poppy's side of the suite. Tito's room flanked Baron's, and Pendleton's quarters were closest to the stairs. Normally, Sadie would have saved herself the fee for palm-greasing by snooping through the hotel ledger; however, the page with Cass's, Baron's, and Tito's signatures had been missing.
Half expecting to be attacked by a snarling raccoon at any moment, Sadie glanced warily over both shoulders before withdrawing a widdy from her apron pocket and unlocking the Westerfields' door. She'd already searched every desk drawer, file cabinet, wall hanging and floor plank in the Spartan campaign office that Pendleton ran for his boss in the Public Square. Unless one considered a backroom with a mattress suspicious, she could find only one other questionable thing. Pendleton had hidden two ledgers. One had contained the names of campaign donors, all meticulously entered and perfectly legal, as far as she could tell. The other ledger, oddly enough, had been blank.
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