Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (13 page)

"Seems like we've met before," he drawled.

"Must've been a past life."

"As I recollect, you weren't so fond of wearing a beard back then."

"A wretched nuisance," she confided. "It itches like hell."

"I like it."

"You would."

Never missing a beat, she dealt the first hand for Stud Poker. The Queen of Hearts showed on her side of the table, the Knave of Hearts on his.

"How fitting." His baritone was velvety, nearly a croon. Picking up chips, he tossed them to the center of the table. He'd staked 100 dollars.

Showboater.

But she'd expected no less. From day to day, Cass was either as rich as a bank or as poor as a migrant orchard picker. When she'd reunited with him four years ago in Dodge, he'd bragged that he'd just won every stitch of clothing in a game of chance. Money meant nothing to Cass. If his guns earned him thousands by noon, he gambled away his winnings by sundown. He'd always been of the opinion that he could live off the land, and life's other necessities—like ammo, whiskey, and riding tack—could be won in some contest he dreamed up on the spot. Knife-throwing and target-shooting were the areas in which he excelled, although he pitched a mean game of horseshoes, and she'd seen him crush rival marble-shooters, mainly because he threw off their aim with his banter.

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 trying 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.