Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (12 page)

Cass adored her.

Collie, however, was out of his league. When Wilma's bold, measuring gaze fastened on his fly, he got so flustered, he nearly spilled Vandy to the carpet. Mumbling something that sounded like,
"Bourbon,"
he fled for the nearest, liveried waiter.

Wilma's chuckle was low and husky. "Surely the boy's not a virgin. Not in
your
care."

"You'd have that effect on Casanova."

"True." Wilma's dimples peeked as she placed a bejeweled hand on his sleeve.

They strolled across the gold-and-crimson geometrics of the Aubusson carpet, making small talk, chatting amicably about Dodge, Lampasas, and mutual acquaintances. The latter topic inevitably led to Sadie.

But Cass knew better than to ask where his Texas Tiger had holed up. He hadn't earned the nickname, Coyote Cass, because he was in the habit of letting a woman make a cat's paw of him. His job was to distract and to decoy, while his secret weapon, Collie, prowled the premises with his weasel ears.

Since Wilma's secret parlor had no windows or balcony for romancing, Cass escorted her to a red-velvet settee behind potted palms.

"And now I can give you your present," he teased affectionately, drawing a small pouch from his vest pocket.

Her eyes lit up, as he knew they would. "But your company is present enough,
cher,"
she cooed gamely.

"Aw. You always know how to make a fella feel special."

As a point of pride, Cass never paid for a bawd's services. Wilma never gave away a rut for free. After haggling like fishwives a couple of times back in Dodge, they'd finally agreed on a wager. If he could get her to scream his name just once in ecstasy, he could have his pick of the bawds in her house if—and that was a big "if"—the lady was agreeable.

That "wager romp" with Wilma had nearly killed him. He'd had to work for six unholy hours at his task, which had rendered him incapable of sitting astride a saddle, much less walking without a limp, for two days. However, he'd learned things about pleasure that he, in his 18-year-old arrogance, had never dreamed might happen between a man and a woman.

After that night, Cass had started a tradition. Each new droving season, when he would show up at Wilma's house for the first time, he would bring her a present—not because he had to, but because he liked to give pleasure to women.

He flashed a wicked grin. "You know me. Always trying to be a better man." He offered her the pouch. "Consider these a token of my esteem. I saw them, and I thought of your eyes," he added gallantly.

Curiosity sneaked across her features. When she tipped the bag, a perfectly matched pair of tiger eye earrings spilled into her palm.

"My
eyes?" she repeated archly.

He adopted his best hang-dog expression. "You don't like them."

"They are lovely,
cher.
And yet, I cannot help but think you had some other tiger in mind."

He widened his baby-blues. "Whoever could you mean?"

Indulging in a showboater's gene, he dropped the other object hiding in his palm. "Oh, darn," he drawled, taking great pains to make sure Sadie's necklace spilled across his boot. "There I go with my butter fingers."

Anybody who knew Sadie knew that necklace meant the world to her. The pendant was actually a brass button from her daddy's Confederate uniform. Crossed sabers dominated the design, with '8' centered above, and 'TX' below. The etchings signified the Eighth Texas Cavalry—more commonly known as Terry's Texas Rangers. Sadie had once confided to Cass that other than an old Henry repeater rifle, the battered button was the only memento she still possessed of Roarke Michelson.

Cass stooped, retrieving his prize. "Say, Wilma. Do you know where I might find a poker game with a freckled sodbuster? I could use this necklace as my opening stake. I figure it must be worth a couple of dollars, at least."

Wilma looked torn between amusement and agitation. "Since when did you become interested in freckled sodbusters?"

"Since one kicked me in the gut last night."

"Poor darling. You didn't happen to be holding your gun at point-blank range?"

"What mean-spirited busy-body started that rumor?"

She chuckled as his show of indignation. "Wait here. I'll see what I can do."

Chapter 7

Chewing the fat with a discontented group of grangers, Sadie sprawled man-like in her chair with a circle of empty shot glasses cluttering her side of the poker table. The four of clubs was showing in her Stud draw, and a stack of chips was rapidly depleting at her elbow. She was losing on purpose. She was also slurring her words and laughing louder than necessary. God knew, she'd observed enough rednecks in Western saloons to know how to mimic one.

According to Cotton, Cass had arrived, hunting for her. Sadie wasn't surprised. In fact, she'd prepared. That's why she'd donned a dingy linen sack suit (which was the ugliest thing she'd ever worn); blue-tinted railroad spectacles (to turn her amber eyes a shade of green;) flesh-toned putty to hide the freckles on her nose, and auburn facial hair. Knowing Cass as she did, she figured she was due for a monumental showdown.

Her mind flashed back to a torrid night in Dodge, when she'd insisted she was a business woman who would never give her heart to any man. He'd taken offense at the idea. When she'd refused to make an exception, even for him, he'd used his lariat to bind her to the posts of her bed. She could still hear his provocative drawl above her ripping breaths as he'd tantalized her feverish, sensitized nakedness. She could still remember melting into a sparking puddle of nerves when he'd plied his considerable talents at sin, tormenting her with whipping cream and his wickedly mobile tongue. Unable to resist a moment longer, she'd begged him to take her, and he'd plunged triumphantly inside her until she'd exploded like a freaking supernova.

A lusty little smile curved her lips.

'Stop that!'
her ever-practical brain railed at her nether region. What the Rebel Rutter knew about love could probably be poured into a thimble.

As if on cue, the parlor door opened, and Wilma crossed to Sadie's table with a serving tray. As the madam flashed her secretive smile and leaned over Sadie's shoulder, Sadie could smell the oddly pleasant combination of dried peony and rosemary, which the Mambo regularly replenished in her
gris-gris,
the protection pouch swinging from a leather cord around her neck. Wilma ardently believed in banishing evil—as well she might. A whore, and especially a whore of mixed blood, often saw the darkest side of men.

"Are you sure you're up to meeting with him,
chere?"
the Mambo whispered, placing a shot of whiskey-colored sugar water by Sadie's elbow.

Sadie nodded curtly. She didn't see how fleeing through Wilma's secret tunnel would help her dig up dirt on a senator. Besides, the only way to determine if Cass could be turned into a trustworthy informant was to figure out how loyal he was to Baron.

"C'est bon,"
Wilma murmured. "I shall send him to the poker room. Let us see how long your disguise fools our Rebel Rutter."

Wilma waved; Cotton nodded; and within minutes, Cass and Collie were stepping through the sliding panel that separated the gaming hall from the parlor. A great deal of grinning and giggling arose from the two female beerjerkers in the room. Sadie couldn't tell whether they were admiring Cass's rugged good looks or Collie's. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought the kid's silvery-blond hair, sun-chiseled features, and rangy torso made him Cass's younger brother.

Pushing her spectacles up her nose, she pretended to focus on shuffling. The hayseeds in her game were well on their way to having their crops freighted, so to speak. In fact, they were more interested in gawking at "big city titties" than shelling out money for a rut. Sadie figured her Bubbas were the best part of her disguise to fool Cass.

But she hadn't considered the raccoon. Cass let the varmint sniff something that looked suspiciously like Daddy's button. The next thing she knew, the roly-poly nuisance was galloping across the carpet in a silvery ripple of fur, sniffing his way past boots and spittoons before clambering triumphantly into her lap. She glowered at the creature.

"Tarnation!" cried Bubba One, blinking blearily across the table at the furry game-crasher. "I'm seeing coons!"

"Dag-nabbit." This from Bubba Two. "I gave the bouncer my squirrel gun!"

"Don't make no never mind," said the heroic Bubba Three, who was trying—rather clumsily—to impale the coon with a walking stick. "I'll barbecue the varmint!"

The coon swiped a paw, flashing ferocious fangs. A heartbeat later, Cass and Collie stood scowling on either side of her chair.

"You barbecue my coon, and I'll barbecue your ass," Collie threatened in a gruff, Kentucky accent.

The coon grabbed her shot glass and began guzzling the sugar water.

Honestly. How does Cass keep a straight face around these clowns?

"Scram," the gunfighter growled, drilling his iced baby-blues into the rednecks.

The grangers gulped and fled, their chairs toppling backwards onto the carpet.

So much for the safety of numbers.

But Sadie had been playing games with Cass—both in and out of bed—long enough to recognize a real threat when she saw one. Right now, his anger was under control.

"Looks like we're one short in our foursome," she drawled, continuing to shuffle her cards. "Should I be dealing a hand for the coon?"

Collie arched an eyebrow at Cass. "You put up with that mouth?"

"With a gag."

Sadie snorted. "So you'll be kissing my ass, then."

Reluctant amusement sneaked across the steely planes of Cass's face.

The kid shook his head. "You're a goner, Snake Bait." Hoisting Vandy to his shoulder, Collie reached for a Bubba's half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey. "I'm getting drunk over yonder. So if you need rescuing, you'll have to give Vandy a holler."

Cass nodded.

For a long moment, he continued to stand there, flexing his hands over his missing Colts as if he wanted to draw—or maybe to shake her. Eyes the color of a wind-swept Texas sky raked over her wig, facial hair, and voluminous coat, possibly checking for weapons. God knew, she was about as alluring as a potato sack in all this baggy linen.

But Cass... Well, he would have made her mouth water with an apple barrel suspended from his shoulders. As usual, he wore black. All black. Since his gun belt was in Cotton's capable hands, only the winking of his fancy, Mexican-style rowels detracted from the sleek, feral lines of his six-foot length.

She decided to break the stalemate.

"Where'd you get that pendant?" she demanded, hiking an eyebrow at the battered brass. It was Daddy's button, all right. Cass had let it flop onto his bandanna to make sure she saw it. She'd been hunting for that pendant all damned day!

Cass flashed his Coyote grin and tucked the makeshift, leather cord beneath his collar. "What, this old thing?"

"Play you for it," she challenged.

"Don't know if you can afford the stakes."

Smartass.
He knew precisely how much that button meant to her.

Sadie shrugged and riffled the deck of cards. "Sounds like you're scared you'll lose."

"Them's fighting words, Four Eyes."

"I'm shaking in my boots, cowboy."

It was the old banter, with a delicious new twist: the unknown element of Cass's loyalty.

He picked up a chair and straddled it. As he settled close beside her, Sadie struggled to ignore the captivating shower of sparks that danced along her nerves. The crackle of current between her and Cass had always been like some hungry, growling thing. Never had it been more dangerous than tonight, when she had to keep her head cool and her heart hard to discern the truth from his lies.

He doffed his Stetson and set it on the table. "The name's Cassidy," he said in ironic tones. "William. Most folks call me Cass."

"Uh-huh."

"You got a name?"

"Depends on what I'm wearing."

The twitch in his lips betrayed his mirth. He'd maneuvered his chair close enough for her to catch the faint whiff of sandalwood soap. So few men bothered to sponge off the stink of sweat and steer before they came to solicit a rut. But Cass knew how to please a woman. More accurately, he knew how to make a woman melt into a sparking puddle at his boots—and that was before he flashed all those dazzling teeth.