Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (30 page)

Maybe there is such a thing as Divine Justice.

Sterne had shed his swallowtails, but not his satin vest, frilled shirt, or bowtie. Only his plain brown, Justin boots hinted that he'd once walked among Texicans with the power of a god and the badge of a Ranger.

A no-good,
lying
Ranger, Cass thought darkly when he spied Sterne's gun belt hanging from a brass peg beside Wilma's door. Sterne was embezzling money from the good citizens of Texas. He was a bigger crook than Cass had ever been!

"You know I forbid weapons in my house," Wilma scolded. She was shielding Sterne with her body. "And
I
know you pack a lot more than six-shooters."

"You also know I never miss," Cass snapped. "If I'd come here to ventilate him, you wouldn't even get creased in the crossfire."

"And I suspect Cassidy wouldn't have knocked on the door," Sterne said dryly. "It's all right, Wilma. You can leave."

"Absolutely not! I'm not letting you two smash furniture and bust heads."

"We'll settle our differences like civilized barbarians." Sterne reached behind her hip. "Over scotch."

"Keep your hands where I can see them," Cass warned. "I know she packs a derringer on her thigh."

Sterne hiked a graying eyebrow at this confession, but he didn't challenge it. Instead, he retrieved two glasses and a crystal decanter from Wilma's liquor cabinet.

Wilma glanced uneasily toward Cass's hips. Only then did he realize his hands were flexing over the holsters he no longer wore.

"Pour me a dram too," she told Sterne.

The Ranger's flinty stare locked with Cass's. "Does the lady need to share our whisky to keep you from firing that popgun up your sleeve?"

"I
said
I didn't come to ventilate you, old man."

Grunting, Sterne poured two fingers' worth of Glenmorangie into the clean glass. With his free hand, he waved Wilma toward the door.

"Go on. You've got Cassidy's word."

Wilma's chest heaved. She shot Cass a glare that promised all kinds of hell and retribution. "If you harm a
splinter
in this room, you'll rue your decision to burst through my door."

Cass didn't doubt Wilma's word. As a Mambo, she could make his life a waking nightmare. However, his quarrel wasn't with Wilma, so he nodded his consent.

The door whispered closed behind her.

Sterne was pouring another dram. "You don't like me, and I don't like you."

Cass sneered. "I can drink to that."

"Good." Sterne thumped a glass on the table.

Taking a seat, the Ranger sniffed his own scotch; put his palm over the glass rim; and swirled the contents around the bottom. Cass watched this hoity-toity drinking ritual with unabashed contempt.

"We're agreed on one other point," Sterne said, sipping his whisky.

"What's that?"

"We both want Sadie safe."

"So you let her become a
Pinkerton
?"

To his credit, Sterne managed his surprise without choking on his scotch. "So she confided in you."

"Hell no. I had to sniff, like a weasel, through every scrap of frippery she owns! Sadie's too damned stubborn to admit when she needs help. I found her badge."

Sterne looked troubled. "Then you know that brand of stubbornness can't be dissuaded. Sadie was determined to leave the whorehouse. She didn't think she was suited for marriage. She didn't believe she had the temperament to be a schoolmarm or a seamstress."

"There are
plenty
of other ways to leave the whorehouse! Jumping in front of bullets didn't have to make the list."

"Don't you think I tried to tell her that?" Sterne retorted. "Sadie wanted to prove her mettle. She wanted the opportunity to be respected, like Kate Warne."

"Who?"

"Outside the Pinkerton Agency, few folks know who Kate is," Sterne admitted. "She stopped an assassination attempt on President Lincoln before the war. She was an invaluable asset to the Union and one of Pinkerton's most resourceful agents. Unfortunately, she died of pneumonia a few years after General Lee surrendered at Appomattox."

Cass didn't know whether to scoff at this intelligence or be alarmed by it. Pinkerton had sent a woman into
war?
What the hell kind of monster was Sadie working for?!

Stalking closer, Cass planted his palms on the table and shoved his face into Sterne's. "Sadie doesn't need to prove her worth to me," he growled. "You think I don't know her story? She was robbed of her maidenhead by a tin-star. She got thrown in a whorehouse by a tin-star. Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson and others of their ilk extorted her for protection money in Dodge. Now you're trying to convince me she wants to
be
a tin-star? Hell, you aren't fit to wipe the muck off her shoes!"

Sterne's color was on the rise. He released a long, shuddering breath.

"I'm not arguing with you," he said quietly.

This easy victory was like a splash of kerosene on fire. Cass couldn't have reined in his tongue if he'd tried. "What kind of man lets his woman face killers to cover his lies? Or deludes her into thinking dodging bullets is romantic? What the hell kind of man are
you,
Sterne?"

The Ranger was uncommonly quiet. So quiet, Cass could hear the surging of his blood, the ticking of the wall-clock, the soughing of wind-blown branches beyond Wilma's shuttered windows.

"You love her," Sterne said.

"Of course I love her! She's the fire in my blood, the light in my soul! If I thought for a moment you were born for her, and she for you,
then I'd step aside so you could marry her, and she'd be happy! But you're not the right man—"

"I agree."

The breath whistled past Cass's teeth. He'd been so pumped up to point out Sterne's failings, he couldn't let the argument rest so easily.

"You
agree?
Since when?"

Sterne stared at Cass's chest for a long moment, as if he were peering into his heart.

"Sit down, William."

"I'll sit when I'm good and ready!"

Sterne's smile was mirthless. "Am I to understand from all this caterwauling, you think Sadie's my lover?"

"Don't tell me you're going to deny it after
that little performance at Hancock Park!"

"It was a performance. Nothing more."

"So you
admit
you've been coercing Sadie to do your dirty work—"

"Sadie has worn a badge for Allan Pinkerton for four years. If I thought she was working against her will, I would have put an end to the arrangement long before this."

Sterne's gaze didn't waver. No prevarication lurked in the lawman's manner. But Cass didn't want to believe him. Four years of hatred egged him on.

"Well, you and Sadie weren't
performing
back in Dodge. How many times did she sneak off to meet you at the Harvey House, eh?"

"I assure you, William. It would be quite impossible for me to have a sexual liaison with Sadie."

Cass sneered. "Bawds talk. The way I hear it, your equipment works just fine."

"That's reassuring," Sterne said dryly. "But the fact remains. Sadie is not my lover. Nor has she ever been."

Cass shook his head. Why Sterne would deny carrying on with Sadie, especially now, after his Ranger career was over and he was free to marry her, didn't make much sense. But Cass didn't let that fleeting doubt muzzle his mouth.

"You high-and-mighty Rangers think you rule the world. You think you can ride into any town, take any woman you want—"

"William," Sterne interrupted flatly, "Sadie's my daughter."

Cass wheezed. He couldn't have been more stunned than if Sterne had pulled a rattlesnake out of his holster. For an endless moment, Cass just stood there, gawking. Then his Coyote brain finally kicked into gear.

"No. That's not possible. Roarke Michelson—"

"—Was married to Sadie's mother at the time of our affair. I thought Meg was a widow."

Cass frowned. He was dangerously moved by Sterne's story, not because of anything the lawman had said, but because he'd allowed Cass an unexpected glimpse into his pain. Sterne's throat worked. His lips pursed. He averted his eyes and tossed back the rest of his scotch like any old White Trash. Faced with the proof of such anguish, Cass had trouble believing the notion he wanted to cherish most: that Sterne was a no-good rat-fink and a liar.

"Then Sadie should have told me—"

"Sadie doesn't know," Sterne said.

Holy crap!

At long last, the veil lifted from Cass's eyes.

For four years, he'd been blaming Sadie for an affair she'd never had. He'd walked away from her in Dodge because he'd thought she'd been playing him for a fool. Sadie hadn't been lying about Sterne back in Dodge. Sterne had been lying to
her!

Cass clenched his fists. He had half a mind to smash Sterne's face. "God aw'mighty! Why haven't you told her?"

Sterne's hand shook as he poured himself another dram. "I tried, once."

"Once?"

"She kept fingering that damned button."

Cass knew exactly what Sterne meant. Sadie fondled her pendant whenever she was nervous or afraid. She'd confided to him, once, that the button's cap hid a secret latch. She liked to fantasize that Michelson had used the tiny compartment to hide ciphers. Or maybe to carry quinine in case he got shot. Sadie used the compartment to store a lock of her father's hair. She'd doted on Roarke Michelson. His murder had shattered her life.

Cass folded his arms across his chest. "Trying once isn't good enough."

"Michelson was a decent father. I won't take that away from her."

"Michelson didn't know?"

"Not until the end."

Cass cursed. "So help me God, if you were one of those Terry's Rangers who lynched him—"

"I wasn't." Eyes like granite-colored ice collided with his. "A few years after the war, Meg figured out Michelson betrayed the Confederacy. That he was working as a Pinkerton. Knowing she would be ostracized if the secret leaked, she flew into a rage. She told Michelson he was despicable. She threw our affair in his face. The window was open, and one of their neighbors overheard the argument. That same night, the Klan went gunning for Michelson. Meg never forgave herself."

"Where were
you?"

"Corsicana. Meg and I parted ways in '54—at her request. I never suspected she was pregnant. Not until the spring of '79, when Ranger business led me to work with Allan Pinkerton, did I learn about the lynching. When Pinkerton discovered I'd been assigned to patrol Grayson County for a spell, he asked if I'd ever met one of his operatives, a Roarke Michelson. I began piecing the story together then."

Cass's head was spinning. He sat heavily in the chair across from the man whom he'd hated for so long. A man who clearly thought he was doing the right thing by protecting Sadie from the truth. A man who didn't know his daughter
at all.

"You can't keep sitting on this powder keg, Sterne. Sadie has the right to know you're her father. She'd want
to know."

"Sadie has the right to be
happy,"
Sterne corrected him. "That's why I'm counting on you to keep this matter a secret, William. You owe Sadie that much after riding out on her in Dodge. She never betrayed you. All my girl ever did was try to protect you—and mostly from me.

"That's why she asked me to accompany her to Chicago," Sterne continued in that same grim tone, "to get the restitution Pinkerton owed Michelson's heir. She figured if she got me on a northbound train, I couldn't track you. But once Pinkerton saw her grit and resourcefulness, he offered her a commission. It was Pinkerton who bought out her brothel contract. I didn't have that kind of money on a Ranger's pay."

Cass dropped his gaze from the lawman's. Now he felt lower than a snake's belly. Never once had he suspected these outlandish circumstances. Who would have? If he hadn't found Sadie's Pinkerton badge, he would have accused Sterne of telling whoppers!

Cass's hand shook as he reached for the scotch Sterne had poured him. It was the long-awaited dram of Glenmorangie he'd dreamed of sharing at his rival's expense. Only Sterne wasn't his rival. Not anymore.

But that wasn't the only reason Cass barely tasted the smooth, smoky flavor as it slid down his throat. He owed Sadie an apology of cosmic proportions! How was he supposed to make amends
,
if he wasn't allowed to spill the beans?

Sterne reached into the breast pocket of his vest. After rummaging around for a moment, he withdrew something metallic and tossed it Cass's way. The tin flashed in the lamplight before it landed on the table and skittered up against Cass's glass.

"What's that?" Cass bit out, staring at his lifelong dream.

"A vote of confidence."

Cass raised his eyes from that battered, old Ranger badge and locked stares with its wily owner. "I thought you were retired."

"That's what the governor wants folks to think."

Cass sucked in his breath. "Governor Ireland's been in on your charade? From the beginning?"