Pistols and Petticoats (A Historical Western Romance Anthology) Page 11

  "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

  Lynx raised his smoke to his lips. And puffed.

  "So what are you gonna do with this Sadie after you turn her head?"

  "Make her the happiest female who ever spread two legs."

  Amusement danced a jig in Lynx's shamrock-colored eyes. "Only you would think you could out-perform the jade who taught you everything."

  "Not everything," Cass fired back. "And I warned you about calling my Sadie names."

  Lynx shook his head, rubbing out his smoke with the toe of his Justin boots. "You always did put that woman on a pedestal."

  "She stood beside me! She was the only person in Pilot Grove who didn't say Bobby was White Trash or that he deserved what he got!"

  "That may be. But times change. People change."

  Cass glared at his friend. The fact that Lynx had an uncanny instinct about people only made Cass angrier. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had to pay for a rut. In fact, he prided himself on being able to charm the skirt off any Calico Queen.

  Sadie had not only named a price, she'd tried to bilk him out of $50! Worse, she'd kept throwing this pasty-cheeked Chalkey in his face.

  The only thing Cass could figure was that times were hard for Sadie. The Long Branch was a far cry from the New York, Chicago, and San Francisco opera houses that she'd hoped to sing in someday. Back in Pilot Grove, as fiery as any shooting star that lit the night, she'd confided all her dreams of fame and glory to Cass. He'd worshipped her as only a penniless youth could: he'd given his body wholly to her pleasure.

  But even in those days, when he'd been too green to know a smooch from a kiss, Sadie had been willing to sin with him for free. And someday, she would again, by God!

  In the meantime, he wasn't opposed to helping out a friend. So bring on the competition. Cass knew his appeal to women. His Coyote Medicine (as Lynx had dubbed it) was legendary in five states. The only bawd in this world whom Cass would have considered tarnishing that reputation for was Sadie. To prove her worth.

  "If you really wanted to be useful," Cass snapped at the smirking Cherokee, "you'd stop yakking and start driving up the wagers in that crowd. I need $6,000 by midnight."

  Lynx's jaw dropped.

  Then he laughed.

  "You want to eat a knuckle sandwich?" Cass growled.

  "That woman must be one helluva rut."

  "Don't go getting any ideas, peabrain!"

  Lynx chuckled, digging a crumpled greenback from the front pocket of his dungarees. "Wouldn't dream of it." With a wink, he turned toward the harmonica player and his crowd of belching caterwaulers. "Not for $6,000, anyway."

  Chapter 3

  STERN KING

  About eight minutes later, Sadie heard the first gunshot and a resounding cheer. The latter made the sawdust jump on the pine planks of the dance floor.

  Nervously, she watched City Marshal Bassett and the Masterson brothers toss back their whiskey, throw down their Poker hands, and race for the swinging doors.

  So did most of Chalkey's patrons.

  By the time she was able to elbow her way through the stinking wall of manflesh that blocked her view, most of Front Street had hiked their window sashes, climbed onto their roofs, or crowded the porches that circled the Long Branch. She could see the scantily clad girls from Wicked Wilma's Watering Hole, yoo-hooing Cass and raising their skirts to entice his spectators.

  She recognized Cass's good-looking pal—Jesse Quaid—waving a fistful of greenbacks in the air. Jesse was jostling his way through the bettors and egging them on with ever crazier trick-shots for Cass to perform.

  She spied the Mastersons, their hands resting on their six-shooters; the Earps, their arms crossed over their Winchesters; and the inveterate gamblers, Doc Holliday and Luke Short, both of whom were renowned marksmen. All the deadeyes were watching with thin-lipped smiles as Cass spun and juggled his guns, tossing them over his shoulders.

  Meanwhile, Wicked Wilma was tying a handkerchief to an empty whiskey bottle on her rain barrel.

  Nearly too fast for the eye to follow, Cass drew his right Colt, fired, and spun the .41 back into its holster. Wilma's lace smoldered and smoked, fluttering in two pieces to the dirt long after Cass had holstered his gun. The bottle didn't even quiver—which had been the goal of that particular wager.

  The bettors roared. Wilma's bawds clapped and cooed, bouncing their breasts for good measure.

  "Atta boy, Rebel Rutter," Wilma boomed in her molasses-thick, Cajun accent.

  Sadie arched an eyebrow. Rebel Rutter?

  Next, Cass swaggered across the street to Liliana. He'd barely doffed his hat and swept a bow before the busty blonde had launched herself into his arms, grabbing fistfuls of his hair and sticking her tongue down his throat.

  Not to be outdone, Cass ground his hips into hers, squeezing her buttocks and plundering her mouth in a lusty, temperature-raising display that earned him whoops and wolf whistles from the men.

  He's a one-man circus, Sadie thought in rising irritation.

  Finally, her flushed and panting rival came up for air. Sadie noticed how Chalkey scowled, crossing his arms on the Long Branch's porch, where he stood beside City Marshal Bassett. She didn't think that could be a good sign for Liliana or Cass.

  In the meantime, the Dulcet Dodo had dissolved into girlish giggles. With enough eyelash-batting to set a prairie schooner sailing, Liliana passed to Cass the palm-sized mirror for which she'd demanded "payment."

  Walking off 25 paces, Cass turned his back, aimed over his shoulder, and used that looking-glass to blast the whiskey bottle to Kingdom Come. After waiting a judicious period for the wagers to multiply, he performed the over-the-shoulder trick again. This time, he cocked the gun's hammer with his boot, not his hand.

  That demonstration raised a few more eyebrows, notably, Doc Holliday's.

  It was in that moment that the breeze wafted the clean, masculine scent of sandalwood past Sadie's nose. Appreciatively, she turned her head...

  And found Wolf standing beside her.

  "That boy—" Wolf's Texas drawl emphasized Cass's youth—"looked mighty fond of you. Inside."

  A slow heat burned its way up Sadie's neck. She was grateful for the shadow cast by the porch roof. "I have that effect on men, as well."

  His lips twitched at the subtle taunt. But he continued to watch Cass, not her, so she took the opportunity to study him. His dark head was peppered with iron-gray hairs, thick, wavy, and plush, but meticulously slicked back in a cut that ended sharply at the nape of his neck. She suspected he didn't have much patience for curls.

  There was an unyielding quality to his square jaw and broad shoulders—a military discipline that his dimpled chin and silvery eyes couldn't dispel. He was lean, fit, and unobtrusively dressed, from his brown linen duster to his no-frill spurs. Nevertheless, he stood out in the crowd. She decided his posture and cleanliness were the culprits, not his modest height. Cass stood two inches taller. But while Cass earned attention through showmanship and charm, Wolf commanded it through sheer strength of will.

  As if by magnetic force, her gaze was drawn back to Wolf's face. His stare collided with hers. That keen, discerning intelligence made her feel exposed. Invaded.

  Hastily, she averted her eyes. She found herself fondling her pendant, which was really a button. It had adorned Daddy's uniform while he'd ridden for the Eighth Texas Cavalry during the War Between the States. Etched into the brass were crossed sabers, with '8' centered above the swords, and 'TX' below. That lowly button was one of the few possessions of her father that Sadie had prevented her mother from selling or melting down.

  "Unusual trinket," Wolf drawled, those all-too-direct eyes fastened on her locket.

  Her chin raised a notch. "It belonged to my father."

  "He must've been one of Col. Terry's Rangers."

  She steeled herself to silence. The fact that she'd blurted out anything about her precious Daddy—and to a stranger who'd try to screw h
er for less money than the cost of loaded dice—vexed her in the extreme.

  Abruptly, he released her from his stare. Her breath whooshed past her lips. What was it about this man that gave her the fidgets?

  Wolf fixed his attention on Cass, who was reloading his guns. Apparently, Cass had accepted the bet that he couldn't shoot 12 china saucers from the sky before they hit the ground. Amidst a great deal of whooping and wager-placing, Rath hurried to unlock his mercantile and fetch the targets. Luke Short, whose Poker winnings since sundown totaled $8,000, magnanimously coughed up the $2.50 for the saucers, telling Rath to "keep the change" from a $5 bank note.

  "The name's Rex," Wolf drawled. "Rexford Sterne."

  She darted a speculative glance at his profile. Stern King, huh? The name suited him. But it meant nothing to her.

  "You're a long way from home, Rexford Sterne."

  "My saddle's my home. Steel's my kin."

  "Let me guess," she said dryly. "Big gray brute. Not gelded."

  "And older than you, I'll wager."

  "I'll never tell."

  A dimple peeked in that stoic profile. "Wit, maturity, and beauty. That's a rare combination."

  She was pleased by the compliment, but she didn't show it. She did her best not to reveal anything that might jeopardize her negotiating power over a John.

  Meanwhile, Jesse Quaid was getting ready to toss all 12 saucers into the air—as high and straight as he could, no doubt, and on a direct line with the moon. That's what Sadie would have wanted if she'd had to blast china into bits in the middle of the night.

  "That half-breed," Sterne drawled, "he's from Pilot Grove, isn't he."

  Although Sterne had phrased a question, his tone left little doubt that he knew the answer.

  Warily, she shrugged. "Lots of Texicans here tonight."

  "You know Pilot Grove, then."

  Immediately, she realized she'd fallen into his trap. She wanted to kick herself.

  "I passed through it once," she lied. "Site of the notorious Lee-Peacock feud. Everyone on the stage coach was talking about it."

  Sterne didn't challenge her fib.

  She wondered if she'd thrown him off her trail.

  Or maybe Cass's.

  "Seems like northeast Texas had more than its fair share of troublemakers back in the day," Sterne reminisced. "Some courageous men, too."

  If he was waiting for her to boast, "Like my father," he was disappointed.

  Meanwhile, the show in the street continued. With an admirable show of strength and skill, Jesse heaved, and the six white saucers that he gripped in each fist rocketed toward the moon.

  Cass was already in motion. Fire spat in rapid succession from each Thunderer. Porcelain shards rained from the stars.

  Showboater or not, Cass's feat was impressive. Sadie had grown up in a turbulent time in a town full of gun-waving hotheads. Her daddy had gifted her with a pistol when she'd been barely six. After the war—and the bloody, Lee-Peacock feud that had stolen him from her—she'd continued her shooting practice. She'd figured she needed more than Chalkey to protect her in her line of work.

  However, not even with a repeating rifle, like the Winchester that was all the rage, did Sadie think she could strike twelve spinning targets before they fell to earth. By moonlight, she suspected she would have been lucky to hit six.

  As Cass's last bullet shattered the last saucer, the crowd went wild. Sadie stole a peek at Sterne. His chiseled features betrayed no feeling. Had Cass's shooting impressed him?

  Did anything about Cass impress him?

  Her cocky young Coyote was well on his way to winning the $6,000 that he'd pledged her. Doc Holliday, who was hacking out his lungs and swilling whiskey between cheers, had staked Cass for $3,000. Wilma had raised another $1,500 for Cass by egging on his detractors. Rath and Hoover, the liquor merchant, were happily shoving fistfuls of cash into their pockets.

  But Luke Short, the Long Branch's resident high-roller, didn't look pleased. He'd gambled on Cass and lost to the lunger, Doc. Now the dapper Luke was tucking his top hat and cane under one arm to confer with City Marshal Bassett. Clearly, the two men were trying to concoct a test that would win back Luke's Poker earnings.

  The crowd was getting restless. Some of Cass's newfound Texas supporters were heckling Luke, calling him a Nancy Boy and demanding that he pay up.

  "Name your target," Cass called smugly to the Mississippi-born gambler.

  "How much do you value your friend?" Luke countered in his silky, southern drawl.

  Cass locked stares with Jesse, who stood with Wilma, across the street. Furtively, the Cherokee inclined his head.

  "Whaddaya have in mind, Luke?" Cass called.

  "Apples. One on his head. One in each hand. You shoot over your shoulder. And cock with that drop kick."

  It was a deadly game, to be sure. Cass hesitated.

  "He accepts," Jesse said mildly. "For $10,000. You good for it?"

  The short-tempered, mustachioed gambler drew himself up to his full five-foot, six inches. "Hell yeah, boy! I'm good for it."

  Jesse's face darkened at the disparagement.

  "Then place your bet," he snapped.

  Cass didn't appear as confident as his target. He dragged Jesse over to Wilma's rain barrel for a heated bout of whispering.

  Sadie bit her lip. She didn't know Jesse in the least—except by his reputation as a target of Pilot Grove's Ku Klux Klan—but the man was clearly pissed about that "boy" slur and probably not thinking straight.

  Whether or not Luke had proof that Jesse was part Cherokee was moot. Luke clearly thought him inferior. Chalkey was more lenient than most saloon owners—money was money, to his mind, whether the customer was Colored or White—but he didn't let Colored men touch his girls. He also had a segregation rule, one which Jesse had secretly been violating. The Long Branch served liquor to Indian and Negro men only in the cramped and crowded "slave quarters" out back. Earlier that night, Jesse had enjoyed front-door admittance.

  Sadie found herself worrying about Jesse, even though Cass didn't look inclined to risk his friend's life on a bet. In fact, Cass started to walk away from the argument.

  But Jesse grabbed his arm and pulled him back. He gestured in her direction. Cass's eyes narrowed. Sadie guessed he'd spied Sterne.

  At last, Cass yanked his arm free. His jaw was set as he stalked to the center of the street.

  "Fetch the apples, Rath," Cass called in a gravelly voice.

  Claps and whistles erupted from the crowd. A hint of disapproval flickered over Sterne's face. He hooked his thumbs over his gun belt.

  "That boy needs his head examined."

  This time, Sadie suspected he was referring to Jesse.

  However, the Cherokee half-breed exhibited nothing but confidence in Cass. With catlike grace, he balanced an apple on his head and spread his arms. His face was impossibly calm, his body relaxed. Except for his deep, even breathing, he stood like stone.

  Cass halted at the requisite 25 paces.

  Sadie's heart crawled to her throat. It occurred to her that if Jesse lost a thumb, ear, or worse, the blame would lie with her, because she'd refused to pimp herself for the standard rate. She couldn't live with that. She started to step forward.

  Sterne grabbed her arm. "Too late," he murmured. "You'll distract him."

  Sure enough, Cass was drawing. His face looked unnaturally white in the moonlight: a mask of grim concentration. Fire and smoke spat from his Thunderer. First, the apple in Jesse's left palm crumpled and fell. Then the apple in his right sprayed pulp and tumbled.

  Cass's hesitation was minute. Sadie breathed a silent prayer. Doc crossed himself.

  Before the two halves of that second apple hit the dirt, the deed was done. The third apple was dribbling cider down Jesse's forehead.

  Cass released his breath in a shaky laugh.

  Luke's brow darkened, but he was man enough to own his losses. He waved one of his gambling cronies forward. "See to the
draft, will you, Edmund?" he told the president of the Cattlemen's Bank.

  "I trust, Mr. Cassidy," the gambler drawled with deceptive cordiality, "you'll allow me to buy you a drink. Say eightish, in Chalkey's private Poker room tomorrow night?"

  Cass tossed Sadie a cheeky grin. "That's right kind of you, Luke. But I'll be a busy man tomorrow night. And most nights in the foreseeable future."

  At his triumphant wink, Sadie's cheeks burned. She averted her gaze—and noticed Liliana's pout; Wilma's speculative appraisal; Chalkey's grudging shift from annoyance to avarice.

  "Lots of Texicans here, all right." Sterne's voice dripped irony as he repositioned the Stetson on his head. "I can't place Cassidy yet. But I will. I never forget a face. I remembered yours, Miss Michelson."

  Sadie nearly strangled on her breath. In alarm, her gaze flew to his shuttered features.

  "I'll be lodging at the Harvey House for the night—if you want to know how Roarke Michelson really died," he added, tipping his hat. "Respects."

  Daddy? Sadie sucked in her breath. What did Sterne know about Daddy?

  Her pulse was thundering in her head as the Wolf padded into the street and dissolved like a shadow in the dispersing crowd of buffalo hunters and cowpokes.

  Sonuvabitch, she thought in a sudden flash of intuition.

  And then: He's not wearing a badge!

  But Sadie would have bet her life that Rexford Sterne was a Texas Ranger.

  Chapter 4

  REBEL RUTTER

  In the rumpled sea of her linens and quilts, Sadie lay quietly beside Cass, watching him sleep. The ruddy glow from the brothel's red light spilled through her second-story window, splaying across his heart-tripping beauty, illuminating the boyish curl that had tumbled across his brow.

  She inhaled deeply, detecting the fresh scent of lemongrass soap, mixed with some elusive spice and the lingering fragrance of tobacco. She wanted to reach out, to smooth back that errant curl. But before he'd drifted off to sleep, he'd laced his fingers through hers. Retrieving her hand now would only wake him.