Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (10 page)

"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:

"Find Sadie."

Collie nodded, donning his poker face beneath his curtain of shaggy hair. Most of the time, Collie eyed women the way he eyed rattlers. Cass figured Sadie's loins-stirring smiles and seductive shimmies would be wasted on the kid—which would be a well-deserved comeuppance for the Devil's Red-haired Daughter. After the way she'd kicked him in the gut, Cass wanted nothing better than to tie his born-again lover to a bedpost and paddle the stuffing out of her.

Too bad Sadie would like it so much.

Grunting farewell to Sid, Collie stomped past Poppy with callous indifference. Vandy flashed his fangs at the senator's wife before scampering into Fourth Street.

Now it was Cass's turn. Unfolding his long legs, he settled his Stetson on his head and reached for the gun belt Sid was extending to him.

"Much obliged."

"I certainly hope so," Poppy breathed.

Cass hid his amusement. He'd been speaking to Sid.

As Poppy hustled him into the bright, cloudless morning, heat waves were already undulating off the sun-bleached planks of the boardwalk.
Dia de los Muertos
—the Day of the Dead—was only a few days away, and Gringo curiosity-seekers were entertaining themselves in the Public Square by inspecting
Tejano
handcarts piled high with sugar skulls and ritual toys. As Cass passed street vendors, he could hear haggling in broken English.

Lampasas was a railroad boomtown, thanks to the Gulf, Colorado, and Santa Fe, which had completed its feeder line out of Belton only months ago. The result had been to end cattle droving in central Texas and populate nearby hills with tents.

Lampasas, with its famed mineral springs, was perfectly positioned as a vacation resort, since the governor was talking about calling a special session of the legislature in January, to discuss the state's problem with fence-cutting gunnysackers.

The state's other problem was a covert organization of vigilante grangers, who'd given honest, hard-working sodbusters a bad name. The Southern Farmers Alliance had denounced the guerilla tactics of the anonymous radicals, who festered in their ranks and lynched suspected gunnysackers. But a proclamation from a lobbyist group wasn't going to stop the murderers from attending the convention.

Or assassinating Baron.

"Lampasas is such a barbaric place," Poppy said, as if guessing Cass's thoughts. She shuddered. "I can't wait for this convention to be over. Sid Wright is worse
than
useless. Yesterday, I approached him with my private concerns about that floating poker game at Aquacia Bathhouse. Contrary to what all the sodbusters think, their wives are
perfectly aware
that their husbands are sneaking out of the convention to lose their shirts. But when I asked Wright to disband the game, he told me his hands are tied! Can you imagine?
Assassins
are running amuck, and Wright claims he can't send deputies two miles down the road to arrest them!"

Cass cleared his throat. Baron, himself, had staked that poker game as part of his strategy to undermine Sterne's popularity with voters. Apparently, Wright had been too much of a gentleman to acquaint Poppy with the truth.

"The bathhouse
is
located outside of town," Cass reminded her politely. "Sid's jurisdiction is limited to Lampasas."

"What a lot of rubbish. A crime is a crime. Who cares if a sheriff, a marshal, or a Ranger makes the arrest? It's a lawman's
sworn duty
to protect decent folks from outlaws!"

"Well... it
is
true lawmen need a little help now and then. That's why Baron hired me and Collie."

"Oh, Cass. Don't you see? My husband hired private security to protect us from that overbearing tyrant, Rexford Sterne
.
You're the only gunfighter in this town with the nerve—
and
the skill—to stand up to his badge-wearing bullies."

Cass averted his eyes. As much as he wanted to think that Sterne was an unholy bastard, he wanted to cling even more to his ideal that Rangers were noble. All his life, Cass had wanted to be someone whom other men respected. The kind of person whom women loved and little kiddies admired. He knew he could never go back and fix the mistake he'd made at the age of 13, when he'd gone vigilante, drawing too fast and plugging Abel Ainsworth before the Ku Klux Klansman could turn all the way around to face his doom. That split second of adolescent rage, of wanting to avenge Cousin Bobby's brutal murder, had forced Cass to spend his life running from the law, rather than enforcing it.

Still, in his heart, he tried to be worthy of Rangerhood: to fight for right. To protect the innocent. To defend the weak. That's what being a Ranger meant to him.

"You needn't worry about Baron, ma'am," Cass said gruffly. "Tito knows how to handle ruffians. He'll look after Baron when I'm off duty. Besides, most chuckleheads who strap on guns do it for show. They're slow to draw."

"I suspect that's how Marshal Wright got his job," Poppy said disdainfully. "Frankly, I don't think that man would recognize a crime unless he stumbled over a corpse!"

Slowing her steps, she peered into the milliner's window, with its tuxedo-wearing scarecrow and cheerful jack-o-lanterns. Each pumpkin was topped with a witch's hat that sported multi-patterned orange bows. Poppy worried her bottom lip as she stared at the display—or perhaps at the wall clock.

"Cass, you were good to me once, when I needed a friend." She turned to face him again, her expression troubled. "I haven't forgotten how you tried to comfort me that day in the calving barn."

Uh-oh.
Cass's insides squirmed. He hadn't been expecting her to revisit
that
topic.

"You were only 17," she murmured. "Remember?"

Yeah, he remembered, all right. He'd found Poppy crying her eyes out after her second miscarriage and trying to slit her wrists with a whittling knife.

"That kind of sensitivity is so rare in a youth..." Her eyes filled with tears. "And now look at you. A full-grown man, putting your life on the line for my husband. I can't let you get hurt, Cass. It wouldn't be just."

"Uh... thanks, Mrs. Westerfield. But it's my job to make sure you and Baron stay safe. It's what I'm good at. That's why Baron hired me."

She nodded reluctantly, giving a watery sniff and tightening her hold on his arm. "I'm so glad my husband found you."

There it is again. That, 'My Husband,' thing.

They continued their stroll toward the half-constructed, limestone courthouse at the center of the Square. The gothic structure was already imposing, even without its clock tower, which the
Tejano
laborers would eventually erect above the red-slate tiles of the mansard roof.

Poppy grimaced at the Spanish-speaking workers, many of whom were swearing and whipping their mules. Playing the damsel-in-distress, she dragged Cass closer—so close, he couldn't fail to see her flushed skin, dilated eyes, and fluttering pulse. The scent of violets rolled off her breasts like an invisible fog. He was a little surprised by all these sexual signals. Poppy had always seemed too distant for a flirtation.

The truth was, Cass had never been opposed to affairs with married women—or older women, for that matter. Sadie was three years his senior, and when she licked her lips, smiling at his crotch, she could damned near pop the buttons of his fly.

Wilma could shrug off a skimpy lace nightdress in a downright dastardly way—one that never failed to make him salivate, even if she was old enough to be his mother.

But Poppy?

Cass winced to imagine his boss's weepy wife, mourning the ghosts of dead babies and lying like a sack of potatoes in his bed.

Poppy wouldn't be much fun.

Suddenly, she halted between the Commercial Saloon and a driverless wagon, piled high with beer kegs. Cass braced himself, expecting a temperance tirade. To his surprise, she ignored the liquor.

"That footpad at the Globe Hotel got me thinking," she confessed. Tears glimmered on her lashes as she raised beseeching eyes to his. "Baron has so many night meetings. So many
mistresses.
What if some burglar comes to
my
hotel room when I'm all alone and defenseless?"

Cass fidgeted. Her reasoning wasn't outside the realm of possibilities. A senator's wife was as much of a target as her husband.

"No one's going to hurt you on
my
watch, Mrs. Westerfield."

As if to prove him wrong, a gunshot shattered the morning air. The saloon window behind Poppy's head exploded into a thousand pieces.

"Sniper!"
she shrieked, flinging herself into his arms.

Cass muttered an oath, dragging her down behind the buckboard to avoid the shower of glass.

The boardwalk had turned into a chaotic jumble of screaming petticoats and jostling sack suits. Above the sound of a bawling toddler, a
Tejano's
handcart crashed to the street. Sugar skulls rolled; marigolds got trampled. Cass recognized the second and third reports of a Winchester rifle; he smelled the taint of black powder on the breeze.

Struggling to free his arms from Poppy's clutches, he drew his Colts and squinted to the east. The shooter was strategically positioned across the Public Square on Third Street, his back to the morning sun, his vital organs shielded by the false façade of the grocer's roof. A fire-limned derby was all Cass could clearly discern of the man's appearance.

But derbys are favored by sodbusters.

"Stay down!" Cass barked as Poppy tried to rise from her knees.

She locked her arms around his middle section. "Don't leave me!"

"Let me go!"

"You'll be killed!"

"Cass!"
It was Baron's voice, booming from a mess of toppled handcarts, several doors up the street. "Tito was hit!"

Cass cursed at this news. "Take cover!" he shouted at his boss.

But Baron, being as stubborn as his prized longhorn bull, ignored this advice. He was returning the fire, trying to protect Tito. The pirate sprawled on his butt amidst smashed pumpkin rinds, while Pendleton cowered in his boss's shadow, wielding an utterly useless derringer. Baron's .45 wasn't much more effective under the circumstances. A Peacemaker's range was only 50 yards, while a Winchester could strike a target at 400.

Cass broke free of Poppy's frantic hold and tried to draw the sniper's fire. His strategy succeeded a little too well. Cartridges plowed into the kegs; wood chips exploded around his hat; beer foamed around his boots. Half blinded by sawdust and sun, he nevertheless heard a pinging sound. One of his own bullets had struck sparks from the brass receiver of the sniper's Winchester.

That deadly close-call must have enraged the assassin. He turned his rifle on the beer wagon's horse. The frightened animal neighed and bolted. Cass cursed as his cover began galloping away. To complicate matters, Poppy chose that exact moment to faint. He had to get the confounded woman inside the saloon before the dust settled!

"Cass!
Take cover!"

A lanky youth with blond hair was trying to draw the sniper's fire. Collie had entrenched himself with his rifle and coon behind a stack of slate tiles on the courthouse's construction site. The boy's fire blew the sniper's derby off his head. In retaliation, the sniper sheared off the top few layers of slate. Cass could hear the boy cursing like a muleskinner as sharp, red shards rained down around him.

"Take him out, boys!" bellowed an authoritative voice from the south side of the Square. Shielded from the sniper's view, Sid Wright ducked into Third Street. He was sprinting beneath porch roofs with his deputies.