Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (20 page)

Baron snorted with mirth.

Sadie wanted to scratch out both their eyes.

Resolutely tamping down her anger, Sadie tried again. "It's a pity women can't vote, senator. A charming
gentleman—
" she emphasized the word for Cass's benefit "—such as yourself, should be in the Governor's Mansion. Maybe even the White House."

That earned her a grin of appreciation. "I always did believe in looking after the ladies. Are you a suffragette, Miss O'Leary?"

"I admit to doing my part to support my man. And you're a man whom a lady would definitely like to see on top," she said suggestively.

"Of a pike," Cass added.

Baron guffawed. "Tarnation, boy. Should I be renting a room for you two?"

Sadie shot Cass a withering glare. He had the decency to redden.

At that inopportune moment, the craps dealer roared for bets, and the orchestra started playing the cue for her costume change. Choking down her frustration, Sadie was forced to settle for Baron's promise—and a distracted one, at that—to watch her performance.

Seething at Cass's sabotage, she stalked off through the crowd, plotting all manner of paybacks. She hadn't walked more than 20 feet, however, when strong, callused fingers wrapped her wrist and tugged her to a halt.

She rounded on her bushwhacker. "How
dare
—""I'm sorry," Cass murmured. "About last night."

Her chest heaved. They were surrounded by spectators: leering craps shooters, gawking beerjerkers, liveried black-jack dealers.

Even more dangerous to her cover were the orchestra and it's hoity-toity conductor. Maestro Lundgren was an import from the vaunted New York Academy of Music and resented how Rex had called in a favor to get her the Grand Park gig. Lundgren had no idea she was a Pinkerton. After hearing her solo for the first time, the Maestro had complained she wailed like a banshee in heat.

Then, of course, there was Baron, his eyes hooded in speculation as he watched her and Cass through a cloud of blue cigar smoke. As much as Cass deserved to have his head chewed off, Sadie steeled herself against the temptation. She wasn't going to blow her cover because her showboater of an ex-lover got his jollies by making scenes.

"It's forgotten," she said, trying to jerk her wrist free.

"Just like that?" he countered warily.

"What does it matter? I'm due backstage for a costume change."

"I kind of like the costume you have on," he cajoled.

The smolder was unmistakable in those sapphire eyes. Her traitorous heart kicked.

Damn you, Cass, I'm not a fiddle to be played whenever you get nostalgic for the old tune!

She pasted on a smile for their audience and tried again to twist her arm free. "I don't have time for this. I have to sing."

"About me?"

"Sure." She rolled her eyes. "Whatever."

Actually,
Wager with the Devil
had been inspired by their poker game at Wilma's place. But he didn't need to know that. Hell, he didn't
deserve
to know that!

"I can't wait to hear it." He cocked his head in a winsome manner. "Do you take requests?"

"That depends on the request," she said warily.

"I'm kind of partial to
Lucifire."

"You and all the ladies."

"Aw. Don't be that way. Meet me afterward?"

"We burned that bridge, remember?"

He flinched.

Remorse needled her.

"Look," she said grudgingly, "I know what you are,
who
you are. I don't expect you to change for my sake. If she makes you happy, then be happy. Life's too short to hold grudges."

His throat worked, and his hand tightened over her wrist.

"Sadie, it's not like that—"A trumpet fanfare sounded.

She bit back an oath. Her snooty bastard of a conductor was cuing the opening bars of her solo.
On purpose!

"Cass, I really have to go!"

He must have read the desperation on her face, because reluctantly, he released her. Another trumpet blast shook the rafters.

Their stares locked.

Cinders and smoke. Hunger and hurt.

"Watch your back," she whispered earnestly.

Amidst the laughter and applause, she hiked her hem and fled for the steps of the stage.

* * *

Another night, another failure.

Sadie wondered how she could possibly file her next Pinkerton report without getting booted off the case. The convention would be over in two days—
two days!
—and she still hadn't found a scrap of evidence to incriminate Baron for capital murder. Hell, she hadn't even been able to seduce him! If a room full of whistling, stomping sodbusters hadn't deafened her after her performance, she might have worried she was losing her appeal.

Unable to face herself in the mirror, Sadie threw on trousers, a hat, and a beard. She wanted to avoid Cass and sneak out of the casino. She was furious with herself for letting him work his Coyote Charm on her. No one knew better than she the danger Cass posed with those bottomless baby-blues, adorable dimples, and well-rehearsed lines.

'
He's the Rebel Rutter, you sap! Of course, he made you feel like he sincerely cared! That's how he gets sweet little maids to spread their legs!'

Damn Cass. She had to get him out of her system. But how could she end her attraction to him overnight, when four years of separation had failed to snuff out the spark?

That was the question plaguing her mind as she trudged through the park, to the woods, and finally located the secret tunnel which led to Wilma's boardinghouse. The brothel had been built over a cave, carved by a defunct river. Two decades earlier, Confederate engineers had altered the riverbed, so a mule could haul war-time supplies along a mine-cart track to a distant farm. Allan Pinkerton had secretly bought that farm on behalf of his operatives, and when construction of certain covert facilities was complete, Sadie hoped to help Wilma establish her training center there for Pinkies.

In the meantime, Wilma's cave was the perfect hiding place for Sadie to stash trunks bearing her more elaborate disguises—or so she'd thought. When she arrived at the secret chamber and unbolted its door, she surprised a two-legged mouse in a sea of light.

The child couldn't have been more than nine years old. She'd wedged herself between towering kegs of moonshine in the hopes she wouldn't be noticed. Clearly, the urchin had been rummaging through forbidden treasures. Blonde and sheepish, she huddled in the black lace of Sadie's favorite old negligee, accessorized with a string of Sadie's pearls and beaded slippers. Streaks of azure powder accented cornflower-blue eyes; great circles of rouge decorated the child's gaunt cheeks; and cherry-red paint had been smeared—crookedly—over bowlike lips.

To complete this comical picture, wilted daisies jutted from Sadie's most matronly beaver hat (for the days when only an old-woman disguise would do), and the kid's sausage-style ringlets bobbed beneath the net veil.

Sadie cleared her throat, keenly aware that the child wasn't the only one playing dress-up. She tugged her hat brim lower.

"Are you lost, little mouse?" she asked in her best imitation of a man's voice.

The child cocked her head, drawing tawny eyebrows together. "What's the matter? You got a frog in your throat?"

Just my luck. An urchin with attitude.

"Nothing's wrong with my throat," Sadie retorted.

The child giggled. "You sound like a burro with a head cold!"

Sadie choked at this assessment. "Does your mother know where you are?"

"I hope not." The kid grinned, crawling out of her hideout and dragging the negligee's hem through an eon's worth of filth. "Where'd you get your beard? Can I wear one?"

Sadie groaned to see the kid stumble into the lamplight, cobwebs sparkling all over the once pristine beaver fur. The child had a Cajun accent, much like Wilma's, and was wearing a
gris-gris
from her neck. The amulet could only mean one thing: Wilma was trying to protect the little beanpole.

"I don't think a beard would go with the pearls," Sadie said dryly, watching her negligee spill off the kid's scrawny shoulders. "Or with the dust." She arched an eyebrow at the knees of the gown.

"Oops!
Sorry." Hastily, the child knocked the worst of the grime from the silk, coughing behind her hand as dust rose up around her. "There. As good as new. Almost." The little charmer beamed, crowding her freckles together. "I'm Jazi. Well, actually I'm Jazlyn. Mama couldn't decide between Jasmine and Jocelyn, so she invented an even better name!"

"Does Grandma Wilma call you Jazlyn?" Sadie probed slyly.

Illuminated by the radiance of six kerosene lamps, Jazi traipsed over to the rickety vanity that Wilma had nagged Gator and Cotton to drag into the cave—along with Sadie's costume trunk, an accordion-like wheeler's cot, a no-frills wash stand, and a copper bath tub. The rest of the chamber was stacked head-high with kegs of liquor, crates of cigars, and various sundry items needed by bawds.

"Wilma's not my Nannan," Jazi supplied absently, studying her reflection as she tilted the beaver hat at varying angles beneath her daisies. "She's Mama's madam. Or at least, she used to be on Bourbon Street. Wilma calls me Boo."

The mystery deepens.

"Aren't you going to tell me
your
name?" Jazi asked over her shoulder.

"Well, I don't know. How good are you at keeping secrets?"

Jazi's thin chest puffed out with pride. "The
best."

"How can I be sure?"

"Well..."
Jazi seemed to consider this question. "I never told anyone who really paid for my medicine when I was sick."

"Is that a fact?" Sadie edged closer, setting her lantern on the vanity table. She tugged a drooping sleeve back to the child's shoulder, releasing the sweet scent of strawberries. "Someone with plenty of money, huh?"

"If I told you
that,
it wouldn't be a secret!" Jazi countered triumphantly.

Their eyes met in the mirror. Sadie smiled.

"You got me there."

Jazi giggled and reached for a powder puff.

"You can call me Maisy."

"Maisy?" the child repeated uncertainly, the powder puff pausing half way to her nose. "You sure?"

"Uh-huh."

Jazi shrugged, making space so Sadie could fit on the bench beside her.
"Mais
well." Now she really did sound like Wilma. "Freckles are the
worst,
aren't they?" She was gazing wistfully at her reflection again. "Mama doesn't have freckles," she confided. "Not a single one! So she doesn't know how to hide them."

Removing the hat shadowing her face, Sadie let Jazi gaze fully at her complexion. "Now why would you want to hide something that makes you so beautiful?"

Jazi's mouth formed a perfect "O" as she craned back her head to stare at the pesky red dots on Sadie's nose. Naturally, the beaver hat slipped, plunking down to block her view.

"Hey!" She shoved the beaver back to her brow, leaving powdery fingerprints on the fur.

To her amazement, Sadie realized she didn't care about her soiled hat. She wasn't sure why, since her headgear and ruined gown had cost a small fortune, and she had to justify the purchase of every new gewgaw to Pinkerton.

Maybe the part of her that mourned her drowned twin, Maisy, liked the idea of playing dress-up with Jazi.

Or maybe a desperate, lonely side of her wanted to relive the innocence she'd lost after Daddy had been lynched as a Yankee spy.

Of course, Sadie hadn't known about Roarke Michelson's secret work as a Pinkerton at the time. Back in '68, all she'd known was that she and Mama had become pariahs in a very small town. Tossed into the gutter—presumably for lack of coin—13-year-old Sadie had tried to find lodging for her bereaved mother. Trudging the streets during a torrential rain, she'd been rejected at boardinghouse after boardinghouse, until she'd plowed headlong into Pilot Grove's new marshal.

The tin-star had seemed like a friend, despite his northern sympathies. He'd offered her and Mama shelter in his hayloft, mainly because he'd liked the sight of Sadie's shivering curves beneath her sodden gown.

But the grunting pig had soon grown bored with humping a child who hadn't known the first thing about pleasing a man. Within the week, he'd abandoned Sadie and her grief-shattered mother on a brothel doorstep. Two days later, unable to face the shame, Mama had thrown herself out a third-story window.

Sadie hardened her jaw at the memory.

Now as she sat looking at the freckle-faced innocent sitting beside her, a child who'd been borne to a whore, and who'd probably wind up becoming a whore, Sadie's inner Tigress roared. She wanted to protect this impish cub from the desperate life prostitutes were forced to live. She couldn't help but wonder if the
gris-gris
Wilma had fashioned for Jazi was to keep away men who preyed on children for sex.

As if on cue, a light bloomed overhead, and the wooden stairs shuddered, sloughing off dust. Sadie spied the curly dark hair of Wilma as the brothel's proprietess descended, holding her lantern overhead and illuminating the sweating limestone of the cave's walls.