Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (2 page)

"You yak about a lot of things, Snake Bait," Collie grumbled, referring to the copperhead incident. He shooed his pet from his lap so he could swing from the saddle. "But what I really want to know is: why does a state senator want to meet you in a place like this?"

"'Cause Austin's crawling with Rangers."

"Well,
that
should have been your first clue."

"About what, Mary Sunshine?"

"That your old ranch boss is as crooked as a corkscrew."

"Says the kid who steals pies off windowsills."

"Hey! A fella's gotta eat!" Collie's lean, wolfish cheeks turned as red as his bandanna. "'Sides. I thought you wanted to
be
a Ranger, not piss one off."

"Depends on the Ranger."

The truth was, Cass was hoping to strike a deal with his old ranch boss. Now that James "Cattle Baron" Westerfield chaired the Senate's Criminal Justice Committee, he had the political clout to fix Cass's troubles with the law—troubles that had started back home, in Pilot Grove, when Cass learned the hard way that tin-stars took a dim view of Good Samaritans, who tried to clean up Texas with their guns.

Thanks to letters of commendation written on Cass's behalf by Kentucky lawmen, Baron learned that Cass wanted to return to Texas. Unfortunately, those same letters had fallen into the hands of Rexford Sterne, Cass's mortal enemy, who somehow got himself appointed Adjutant-General of Texas's elite law-fighting force.

Thanks to Sterne's Rangers, Cass and Collie had been forced to ride for three weeks through bayou country, where they'd seen more water moccasins, alligators, and mosquitoes than two men should have to see in their
lives. Collie had wondered where the drought was. And the cattle. And why any sane person would settle in Texas.

Collie hadn't exactly fallen in love with the dive-bombing seagulls of Galveston, either.

Tethering his roan to the hitching post, the boy squinted across the street. "Don't look now," he warned in his gruff, backwoods manner, "but that fella on the porch has been watching you ever since we turned down Post Office."

Cass glanced over his shoulder.

"I told you not to look! It could be a
Ranger,
for crying out loud!"

"Wearing a bowler and sack suit?" Cass snorted. "You got sawdust for brains to think something so stupid."

"Stupid ain't
my
affliction," Collie retorted loftily. "I didn't travel a thousand miles to put my neck in a noose."

The kid had a point. Cass hated when that happened.

But Cass hadn't been able to stay in Kentucky any longer. Not the way tensions had been building up inside him over the fiancée of his best friend. After riding with Lynx for 11 years, leaving the Cherokee behind had been the hardest thing Cass had ever done. Even harder than watching Lynx put a ring on Sera's hand.

Cass squared his jaw.
Yeah. Leaving Kentucky was the right thing to do.

"All right," he told Collie. "I'm going in."

"It's your funeral."

"And you're going in with me."

"No, thanks. I hear brain rot's contagious—
Hey!"

Ignoring the growls of Collie's furry bodyguard, Cass dragged his sidekick through the fancy, nautical doors of the Satin Siren Casino and Saloon. His gunslinger's eyes only blinked once to adjust to the foyer's ambient lighting, which was relatively bright, even for a high-class house of sin.

Releasing Collie's arm, Cass halted on turquoise, shell-shaped tiles. As usual, his hands twitched above his .45s while his gaze hunted for threats. The gaming hall was crowded, despite the early hour. He had the fleeting impression of gilded frescos, crystal chandeliers, and liveried faro dealers.

Then he noticed the stage—or rather, its aqua curtain. Craning back his head, he couldn't help but grin as he drank in every detail of that panorama of lust. The central focus was a galleon, marooned in the middle of a tropical lagoon. Beneath the prow, the captain was wrestling a fantastical, whiskered tiger shark with a woman's breasts. An octopus with unmistakably female eyes was using her tentacles to make naked sailors succumb to lust.

But Cass's favorite part of the tapestry was the army of warrior mermaids, who were herding shackled swabbies into a coral cave. The captives didn't look all that alarmed by the dastardly things the Mermaid Queen was doing to their
compadres
. Who would have guessed fishtails could be used in such imaginative ways?

Suddenly, a whale-sized bully with anchor tattoos appeared to block Cass's educational view.

"What the hell is
that
?" the bouncer growled, fixing his good eyeball—the one without the patch—on the whiskered tub of lard at Collie's feet.

The boy bristled. He'd never been fond of authority. "Did ya go blind in both eyes? That's a
coon
, Blackbeard."

Cass coughed into his fist, mostly to hide his amusement. "Howdy, pard," he greeted the pirate. "Don't mind Coon Collie, here. Kentucky
dumbass
asylums don't get much sun. Our Texas drought must've fried his brain."

Blackbeard sneered at this assessment. He had only half his teeth, and most of them were chipped. "Coons ain't allowed. No dumbasses, neither."

"So who let you in?"

Blackbeard purpled at Collie's taunt. Cass had a vision of crunching bones and gushing blood—mostly Blackbeard's, if the bouncer dared to lay a hand on the raccoon's precious boy.

Fortunately for Blackbeard, a blonde in a flurry of gauzy turquoise strolled into the fray. With her coral circlet and gilded trident, the bawd bore more than a passing resemblance to the nymphs on the stage's curtain.

"Welcome to the Satin Siren," she greeted, her silvery voice reminiscent of chimes. "I'm Randie."

Cass winked. "I'll bet you are."

Collie rolled his eyes.

"And who have we here?" Randie gushed, bending at the waist to let the coon sniff her manicured hand. The pose let Cass see clear to her navel.

"Why, that there's Vanderbilt," Cass drawled. "Vandy Vanderbilt Varmint. At least, that's how he's known on all the kitchen Wanted Posters. Vandy never met a sweetmeat he didn't like."

"Is that a fact?" Randie's rose-petal lips fairly dripped nectar. "Then we'll have to find your coon something yummy, won't we?"

"And my name's Collie," the boy interceded acidly. "Collier McAffee. Just in case you get around to wondering."

Randie's cool green eyes swept over the boy's buckskin shirt, which hid a deceptively lean, muscle-packed torso. Next, her eyes dropped to his package—or more likely, to the Levi pockets flanking his plain brass buckle and sturdy thighs. Spying no indication of wealth, the bawd dismissed Collie and lavished her honeyed smile on Cass.

"Baron's expecting you. In the private poker room. Tito, darling," she cooed to the bouncer, "let the nice raccoon pass."

Grudgingly, Tito stepped aside, and Vandy scurried past his boots. But even Randie's influence couldn't keep the bouncer from confiscating gun belts. Cass kept his peace, because like any self-respecting outlaw, he'd concealed all manner of weapons beneath his duster. Collie didn't fuss, because he only needed to bellow a two-syllable command to turn Vandy into a holy, freaking terror.

Thus, the male threesome trotted like lemmings after Randie's sweetly swaying hips. She led them to a side room, dominated by a mahogany poker table with five empty chairs and a well-stocked bar. Chewing the fat with the drink wrangler was a middle-aged man with a big-boned frame, much like a grizzly bear's. Despite the top hat that capped the gent's salt-and-pepper hair, and the elegantly waxed mustachios that hid the scar from an old sucker punch, Cass had no trouble recognizing the Burnett County ranch boss, who'd given him his first shot at earning an honest wage.

"Well, I'll be damned!" Baron boomed the moment Cass stepped across the threshold. "It's the Rebel Rutter! What's the matter, Cass? Run out of brothels in Dodge?"

"Aw, shucks. You'd think I was a voter, the way you sweet-talk me." Cass shook the old skirt-chaser's hand. "How ya doin,' Baron?"

"Still prodding, boy! That's what counts. You wearing a Ranger badge yet?"

"Not yet."

"Damned fools in Austin."

Puffing his stogie like a fiend, Baron squinted next at Collie and his ring-tailed charmer. "Looks like someone snookered his way out of becoming a hat," the senator observed drolly.

While Cass made the introductions, he couldn't help but notice that age, or maybe illness, had shaved at least twenty pounds off Baron's frame. His fancy swallowtails hung loosely around his middle section, and the whites of his coffee-colored eyes were faintly yellow.

But whatever was ailing the old bull hadn't dampened his libido. He patted Randie's shapely rump. "Give the boys what they want, Sweet Cakes. Put it on my tab."

Collie roused himself from his scowl. "You got Kentucky bourbon in this dive?"

"Collie's not used to Texas-friendly," Cass confided.

Baron chuckled. "The boy needs a teat, that's all. Randie, find Collie a heifer who knows how to treat a bull."

"Sure thing, Baron. You like blondes, don't you, Collie?"

"Now
she notices me."

"Not her, kid." Baron's eyes danced. "A woman like Randie is champagne. After a steady diet of sarsaparilla, her kind of fizz is an acquired taste."

Randie lavished her nectar-dripping smile on Baron. He raised her knuckles to his lips.

Collie went back to scowling.

After the bawd made her graceful exit, Cass turned his attention to Baron. "So where's this high-stakes poker game you promised us?"

"Hell if I know. Me and the wife were attending a birthday social this afternoon, when my secretary brought me word that the poker game got cancelled. But the barkeep says the opening ante got moved to half-past-eight."

"So we're early?"

"Looks that way. Things used to run a whole lot smoother around here, before that Yankee cockroach won the joint last week. Aces high. Probably cheated." Baron tossed back a whiskey shot. "Damned Republican," he grumbled.

Cass ducked his head to hide his smirk.

"Anyhow, this Dietrich fella started making lots of changes. Busted Randie back to chorus. She's been headlining here nigh on eight years. Seems like a mean, low-down stunt to pull on a lady—even if that sweet little angelfish
is
getting long in the tooth."

The barkeep coughed into his fist. The mirth in his eyes betrayed his stoic demeanor. "Mr. Dietrich hired a new headliner, senator. A Miss Cassandra McGuire. She's a torch singer from San Francisco. And a natural born redhead—so I hear."

Baron's eyes warmed with interest. "Natural born, eh? Well, the Yankee's got taste in women, you gotta give him that. When does this new filly trot out on stage?"

"Eight o'clock, sir. Mr. Dietrich changed the program last-minute to feature Miss McGuire."

Baron harrumphed, checking his pocket watch. "Well, I reckon we got nothing better to do until the poker game starts. C'mon, boys. Let's find ourselves a stage-side table so we can take a look at the new gal's gams."

But an alarm went off in Cass's head as he surveyed Baron's destination. "Wait." He caught the senator's arm. "Those footlights will make us sitting ducks."

"You expecting trouble?"

"Maybe. I'm thinking all the schedule changes might not be a coincidence. You're an influential man in the legislature. Someone might not want you around."

The senator hiked a bushy eyebrow. "My arrival
did
cause a flurry in the dove cote. But I just figured the bawds were drawing lots to see who'd get first crack at my purse."

"Could be." Cass wasn't convinced. "To be safe, why don't you and Collie get acquainted, while I scout the premises."

Baron grunted. "You armed?"

"'Course."

The senator winked. Patting his own hidden shoulder holster, he waved Cass on his way.

Compared with the poker room, the gaming hall was a mob scene. Cass stepped into the guttural din of male voices, wheezing trombones, and raucous laughter, punctuated by occasional bellows of, "Snake eyes!"

After a leisurely stroll around the perimeter, he bellied up to the bar. Tossing down two bits, he ordered a shot of José Cuervo, then rested his elbows on the counter to survey the room. Near the stage, he spied the casino's duded-up new owner, Karl Dietrich, cracking his knuckles and ordering dancing girls around. Stocky, like a bouncer, Dietrich's darting eyes missed nothing. Cass took an instant dislike to him—and not just because the German was barking at women. Something about Dietrich wasn't quite right. He looked too young for gray hair and a silver goatee.

Next, Cass noticed the sodbuster, whom Collie had spotted earlier on Post Office Street. The granger sat in a dimly lit corner without friends, women, or even a deck of playing cards. His tankard was foaming with cherry sarsaparilla.

That country bumpkin traveled all the way to Sin City to drink fizzy pop?

Suddenly, the sodbuster stiffened. He leaned intently across his table. Cass followed the man's gaze and noticed the rippling stage curtains.