Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (17 page)

Poppy's big, misty green eyes peered eagerly past him to the bed. "Are you alone?"

"'Fraid so, ma'am."

She blinked, squeezing out a tear. "That bastard! He's with
her
again, isn't he?"

Before Cass could utter a single, credible excuse for his boss, Poppy started wailing like a banshee and threw herself into his arms. He staggered backwards, biting off an oath as the door swung closed behind her. In the next instant, 120 pounds of buxom, blubbering femininity were sliding down his ribcage toward his nether region. Cass wasn't any saint, but even he was horrified by the way his pecker was responding to his boss's wife.

However, this wasn't his first rodeo with Poppy's "episodes," as Baron liked to call them. Eight years ago, when Cass had found Poppy threatening to slash her wrists, she'd claimed life wasn't worth living because she'd miscarried another baby.

Baron had been grieving his lost heir, too, but since Poppy had frozen him out of their bed, he'd started turning his wolf loose on younger, doe-eyed prey. Cass supposed that womanizing had been Baron's way of feeling manly. Or maybe extra marital affairs had been Baron's way of proving his seed wasn't "poison," as Poppy had once shouted loudly enough for every cowboy in the bunkhouse to hear.

How Baron and Poppy managed to stay married was anybody's guess. Cass suspected that Baron must still love his wife, deep down, because any other man would have lost patience with her erratic moods. Baron had even hired a Mexican missionary to keep Poppy company while he was away from the ranch. That missionary had suggested that Poppy wear a
relicario,
to commemorate her lost children, and that she begin observing October 31st as
Día de los Muertos
, when the souls of babies returned to the earth.

"I can't go on this way!" Poppy wailed, clinging to Cass's shirt front. "I might as well be dead!"

"Now Mrs. Westerfield, you don't mean—"

"Baron doesn't love me, and he won't let me have babies!"

"I'm sure if you just talked—"

"I have no reason to live!"

"Here now. That's not true." Cass was struggling to drag his bandanna from his throat with one hand and to keep her hips hoisted safely above his traitorous pecker with the other.

"I want to be a mother!" she hiccupped into his pectorals.

"Of course you do."

He wanted to shove his bandanna into her hand, but she seemed more intent on mopping her tears with his shirtfront—especially where the placards gaped and tufts of tawny hair peeked through.

"You've always been so kind to me."

"You deserve kindness, Mrs. Westerfield."

"You'd make a good father," she whispered between sniffles.

"Uh... thanks."

"You do want babies, don't you, Cass?"

She was rubbing her cheek on his shirt, her breaths steaming through the linen. His nipples pebbled.

He told himself she was distraught. He told himself he was lower than a snake's belly to think some poor, bereaved woman was pawing him like an inept lover. Sadie had been right. His mind was in the gutter. He should be flogged—and not in a good way.

Confound it. There I go again!

Burning with embarrassment, Cass tried to swing Poppy's slippery, satin-sheathed hips toward a chair.

That's when another knock rattled his door.

"Oh no!" Poppy cried, throwing her arms around his neck and flattening every inch of fevered femininity against his flesh. "It's Baron!"

Blood surged to Cass's forbidden places. He bit the inside of his mouth hard. He didn't often have to rein in his carnal urges, and he discovered, to his aggravation, that restraint wasn't as easy as preachers and virgins made it look.

"I'll handle this," he hissed, grateful for any excuse to detach Poppy the Cockleburr from his crotch. "Sit here. And stay out of sight."

He drilled her with a commanding stare and pressed his fingers to his lips. She nodded meekly, but her eyes were hungry as they feasted on the bulge in his trousers. At that point, he almost hoped his visitor
was
Baron.

Gritting his teeth, Cass reached for a Colt, checked the beans in its wheel, and crossed to the door. He was expecting to see a drunken Collie sliding down the wall and a desperado coon toting one of the hotel's koi between his teeth.

Imagine his shock when he found the Devil's Red-haired Daughter, smoldering like a brand on his doorstep.

Chapter 9

Sadie waited nervously outside Cass's door, her reticule clutched in a sticky, damp fist.

Her search of Pendleton's room had yielded nothing to incriminate Baron for killing sodbusters—or anyone else, for that matter. The convention of the Farmers Alliance would be over in three days. She was running out of time. She needed to crack this case before Baron holed up again on his ranch. That's why she'd decided to choke down her pride and strike a truce with Cass.

Of course, the sentimental side of her had other, ulterior motives for knocking on his door. She couldn't bear to think he was beyond saving. She was desperately hoping she could convince him not to throw away his last hope of Rangerhood by doing dirty deeds for Baron.

But turning Cass into an informant wouldn't be easy—at least, not as easy as seducing him. Cass and Baron went back a long way, even longer than he and Wilma did. As fond as Wilma was of her Rebel Rutter, she hadn't held out much hope for Cass's conversion.

"You aren't just talking about a romp in the sheets,
chere,
" Wilma had warned. "You're asking Cass to turn state's evidence against one of the most powerful men in Texas. A man who could make his career or crush it—and that's only if Baron lets Cass survive the initial act of betrayal."

Rex had been even less encouraging, if that was possible.

"It will take more than reckless courage to fight Westerfield," the Ranger had said in dire tones. "It will take a man who believes in doing the right thing. A man who loves justice more than he loves comfort, money, or privilege. Can you really tell me Cassidy is that man?"

Sadie swallowed hard to recall Rex's question. The truthful answer was... no. No, she couldn't.

But she
wanted
Cass to be that man.

William Cassidy was a dyed-in-the-wool rascal. He'd robbed stages, smuggled moonshine, rustled livestock, and seduced virgins. Sadie had no illusions about Cass.

However, knowing him since adolescence had given her insights into his character that neither Rex nor Wilma possessed. For instance, Sadie knew that Cass had grown up too poor to wear shoes. He'd watched every man in his family get gunned down in the bloody Lee-Peacock Feud of northeast Texas. She knew he'd carried his mother's grave marker on his own aching back for five miles. And he was deathly allergic to bee stings.

At the age of 12, Cass had been the only person in all of Pilot Grove who'd had the courage to stop the Ku Klux Klan from torturing Lynx, a Cherokee half-breed, who'd eventually become his best friend. Cass was willing to give the benefit of the doubt to anyone at least once, and this idealism could sometimes be sniffed out by older, cannier coyotes with less integrity.

Like Baron.

'I have to try,'
Sadie told herself.
'For the sake of that idealistic boy who used to blanket my windowsill with bluebonnets, I have to turn Cass.'

Drawing a shuddering breath, she mustered her courage and rapped her knuckles on Cass's door. A muffled oath ensued, followed by the creak of a chair and the unmistakable click of a well-oiled Colt cylinder. A heartbeat passed. Then another. Finally, her wary lover cracked open the door. She caught a whiff of tobacco and spicy musk as he arched a pale gold eyebrow at her titian curls and jade evening gown.

She wasn't reassured when he scowled, but at least he holstered his gun.

"You lost?" he challenged in gravelly tones.

Cass hadn't been expecting company; that much was certain. His hair was rumpled. His shirttails were hanging. His feet were shod in stockings—black ones, of course. But even when he was disheveled, the rapscallion made her mouth water with those flame-blue eyes, chiseled cheeks, and tawny chin hairs.

God is so unfair,
she thought uncharitably. She'd had to work for an hour to curl, paint, perfume, and powder—not to mention her trials with a corset, bustle, and garters—just so she could achieve the right appearance for seduction.

All Cass had to do was run his fingers through his hair.

Hell. He doesn't even have to do
that,
apparently.

She pasted on a luscious smile. "This is the lair of Lucifire, isn't it? The notorious heartbreaker, whose kisses burn like flame?"

He snorted. "Depends on who's doing the asking...
Mrs. Sterne."

She ignored his dig. "You were most persuasive at Wilma's place last night."

"How's that?"

"Well, for one thing, you weren't packing a pistol."

"I'm always packing, sweetheart."

"Mmm." She let her eyes trail lower. "Why don't you show me?"

He leaned his shoulder against the jamb and folded his arms across his chest. "What's the matter? Some sodbuster get a putter in his pecker?"

"Let's just say... I like my stud ponies to run the long race."

A reluctant mirth flickered in his glare. Nevertheless, he continued to bar her entry.

Cass was a game-player. Nothing excited his inner Coyote more than giving chase—except, perhaps, getting snared by the Tigress in her den. So Sadie let her shawl gape to advantage. The ploy revealed the bulging tops of freckled, patchouli-scented breasts.

"A lady could freeze out here, waiting to be invited inside," she said huskily.

"Good thing it's hotter 'n the devil's frying pan, huh?"

Smartass.

"But darling, I brought your favorite dessert. And I made my own whip—er, whipping cream."

"I'm flattered."

"You're
tempted."

"Hmm." He rubbed his stubbled jaw. "So what's the pleasure of this visit gonna cost me? Daddy's button?"

"Pendant."

"That's what I figured."

"I could never fool you." Her smile dripped honey.

He tossed a suspicious look at her handbag. "Got anything else to declare in there? A scorpion? Or a rattler, maybe?"

"Nothing that bites as good as you."

"Aw. That's sweet."

He still wouldn't budge.

"You aren't still mad at me for dying, are you?" she asked with a pretty pout.

Something dark and dangerous flitted through the sapphire depths of his eyes. But the emotion fled so quickly, she couldn't put a name to it.

"Refresh my memory. Weren't you planning to visit
Sterne
the night you sneaked into the Globe Hotel, wearing trousers and a beard?"

She wrestled with her annoyance. She'd told Cass a dozen times—no,
two
dozen—she'd never had an affair with Rex. Why couldn't he simply believe her and drop the subject?

"I thought you liked my beard," she rallied with a naughty grin.

"Sure. Why don't you mosey on back to Wilma's place and put it on for me?"

She blinked. In all her years of game-playing with Cass, she couldn't remember a single other night when he'd turned down her offer of sex.

"We'd just be wasting time," she countered in provocative tones. "And my berries would wilt."

"Worse things could happen."

"You mean...
your
berries could wilt?"

He smirked. "As a gentleman, I plead the 5th."

"Not to worry, darling. I know the cure for berries—
and
for gentlemanly inclinations."

She sidled closer. He kept barring the door.

Her eyes narrowed.

She remembered how he'd answered her rap carrying a gun. But that wasn't so disturbing. Always ready for a showdown, that was her Lucifire.

What
was
disturbing—at least to her womanly intuition—was the way Cass continued to shield the door. He wasn't just trying to drive her away, he was preventing her from seeing past his shoulders to the dimly lit interior.