Pistols and Petticoats (A Historical Western Romance Anthology) Page 12

  So she watched him breathe and forced herself not to think about Daddy, Rexford Sterne, or the lawman's cryptic insinuation.

  Despite the time, which was shortly after 4 a.m., Sadie could hear piano music, drunken laughter, and banging headboards. The Long Branch did business around the clock, seven days a week.

  But for once, she wasn't working.

  She marveled that Cass could sleep so soundly. She was accustomed to the racket, of course. She'd learned to take catnaps and shut out the noise. But Cass had spent weeks on the Western Cattle Trail with nothing but crickets, night owls, and lowing cattle to disturb his sleep. Clearly, he was a man with a guilt-free conscience.

  Maybe he really hadn't shot Ainsworth.

  She hoped not.

  Cass confused her. Publically, he'd pursued her with all the flash and charm of his Coyote cunning; privately, he'd grown boyish and bashful, running his mouth to avoid their romp.

  Maybe that's what really bothers me, Sadie thought dryly. Cass was renowned at Wicked Wilma's Watering Hole for being randier than a goat. Yet she'd had to work like the devil to stoke his fire.

  "Um... are you thirsty?" he'd croaked when she'd draped her hips across the bed, hiking her skirt in invitation. "I could order us champagne."

  She shook her head, patting the mattress and lavishing her best come-hither smile on him.

  "Hungry?" he persisted, shifting from foot to foot. "We could have cook fry us up some Rocky Mountain oysters."

  Slowly, artfully, she parted the top of her corset. "All I want is you, lover," she purred—her standard line of patter.

  Cass grew even redder, if that was possible. He cleared his throat. He averted his gaze.

  Poor Billy. She did her best to hide her amusement. He'd paid a stunned, but delighted Chalkey $6,000 for the exclusive right to her body for one month. And also to forget that Jesse Quaid was part Cherokee. But Jesse didn't know that.

  Hiking her derriere in a manner that never failed to get a man's juices flowing, she crawled on all fours, like a tigress in heat, across the red-and-blue checkers of her quilt. Cass might not be ready for whatever triumphant reunion he'd planned, but she was expected to take him there. She knew her job. In Cass's case, she wasn't opposed to it. She called upon her feline persona, the one that used to make his Coyote howl.

  But when she would have reached for his fly, he fled, putting the bed's footboard securely between her hands and his crotch—which wasn't entirely flaccid, praise the Lord.

  "You like walks, don't you?" he asked a little breathlessly. "Wouldn't you rather take a walk?"

  Her patience, which had never been abundant, was wearing thinner by the second. He'd seen her naked before—more than once, if memory served. In truth, she couldn't remember a single time when he'd been shy about shucking his clothes. Or hers, for that matter.

  "You paid the fee, Cass. You don't have to court me."

  "But I want to. You deserve to be courted. I know I'm not much of a catch—"

  "That's not true."

  He scowled. She'd been sincere, but apparently, he'd heard patter.

  "Can't we just go back to being you and me? Before—" he waved his hand in a vague, uncomfortable gesture at the walls—"before all this?"

  She arched an eyebrow. At 12-years-old, Cass had started following his 18-year-old cousin, Bobby, to Pilot Grove's brothel. His age had been irrelevant to Madam Snake Eye: she'd tossed him into the gutter for lack of coin. Cass had vowed that someday, he'd make soiled doves beg for his sex.

  And who knows? Maybe Wilma does.

  To that end, presumably, Cass had befriended Sadie. Their rough-and-tumble frolics had taken place in his tree house, by the river, under the schoolmaster's desk, in Bobby's wagon, and on top of random haystacks around town. She'd been more experienced, true, but even she had been in need of tutelage in those days. She'd experimented on Cass, inventing tricks that she'd hoped would attract an older, richer, more worldly patron. And Cass, eager little Rutter that he'd been, had given her free rein to practice any type of pleasure on his body.

  "What do you mean, 'before all this?'" Sadie demanded. "I've been a bawd for as long as you've known me."

  "But wouldn't you rather be something else?"

  She furrowed her brow. Did he want her to pretend? Professionals like her often had to act out fantasies for their customers: princess, schoolgirl, Army nurse, nun...

  "You mean, like... kissing-cousins?"

  He looked a little sick at the suggestion. "No. I mean like friends. So we can talk. You know, the way we used to. We haven't seen each other for eight years, after all."

  She blinked blankly at him.

  Once, Snake Eye had advised her that some men had to be coaxed past their private insecurities. The 42-year-old madam had gone as far as admitting that she'd had several clients who'd wanted nothing more than a great bosom to cry on or a friendly ear for a chat.

  But when Snake Eye had confided this story, Sadie had secretly pitied her aging proprietress. Never had Sadie been unable to arouse a John. In fact, she prided herself on her record. The greatest fear of any woman, in her profession, was to think that she'd begun to lose her appeal.

  "You're the boss, Cass," she purred, rubbing the mattress in suggestive little circles. "Whatever you want. I'm yours to command—"

  "Stop," he said, raising both hands. "Stop with the sultry voice and the rehearsed lines and the... well, you know. Dammit, Sadie, I wanted this night to be special between us."

  "I see."

  She frowned. Actually, she didn't see. She was doing the job he'd paid Chalkey an eye-popping fortune for. She'd probably go down in Dodge City history for that transaction. Overnight, Cass had made her a legend. From now on, Chalkey would be boasting about her powers of allure, rather than sniping about her age. She might even get a shot at knocking Liliana out of the headline-performer role that Sadie, herself, had enjoyed at a youthful 19—right up until droving season one year ago, when her pneumonia had given Liliana the chance to crawl into Chalkey's bed and onto his stage.

  Performing again as a torch singer would be a dream-come-true for Sadie. She owed Cass an enormous debt of good fortune for restoring her to Chalkey's good graces, especially after her protector had put up so much money in room, board, medicines, and doctor's fees to get her on her feet again. She was grateful to Chalkey—and to Cass, of course.

  But she was a business woman. She had no illusions about her arrangement with Cass. He hadn't offered her his protection. He hadn't offered her his name. Even if he had, she would have rejected his offer. She would have suspected him of some hidden agenda, like keeping her from testifying in a Texas court about Abel Ainsworth's murder.

  Besides, marriage was so far from the realm of possibility, that speculating about it was ludicrous. She hadn't laid eyes on Cass for eight years. He'd been a boy when she'd known him, and no promises had been made between them. Since their parting, he'd had other women. She'd had other men.

  So what was the problem?

  "Sadie..."

  He edged closer, his eyes growing luminous with something completely alien to her experience. She thought it might have been affection.

  "Remember how you used to talk about music? And dancing? And how to choose the perfect ball gown?"

  "You want to talk about dresses?" she asked archly.

  "No! I mean..." He ran a rough hand through his hair. "Remember how I used to talk about being a Texas Ranger?"

  She glimpsed her sweet Billy in those earnest blue eyes, and she winced. As jaded as she'd become, she'd forgotten that boys lived inside men. Boys with deep feelings and even deeper hurts.

  "I remember," she said more gently.

  "Rangering was my dream... um, 'til I left home. 'Course, you can't wear a Ranger badge outside of Texas. Leastways, not to pursue renegades. So now I'm a cowboy."

  And a gunfighter.

  But she didn't point out the obvious.

  "Lucky for you, I like cowboys,"
she purred.

  "Any... special cowboy?"

  She cocked her head, disbelieving. Was he really asking if she had a sweetheart?

  "I believe you're acquainted with Chalkey," she said dryly.

  Cass scowled. "No man can be much of a man if he has to sell his woman."

  Dearest Billy. He always did have a gullible streak.

  Chalkey had been that "older, richer, more worldly patron" that she'd been hoping for. She'd never considered herself his woman. Sure, she'd serviced him. But that had been business. She'd agreed to travel to Dodge with Chalkey because his reputation had preceded him: he didn't beat whores, and he didn't drug them.

  On the other hand, he didn't tolerate slackers. Maybe that's why Chalkey's brothel earned him far more than his steers ever had.

  "Chalkey is a saint compared with Snake Eye," she said flatly.

  Cass gaped in disbelief. "Sadie, what are you doing here? Haven't you heard? Dodge is the Wickedest Little City in America. The undertaker makes as much money as the cattlemen. What happened to your dreams? This isn't a gilded opera house in the fanciest district of town. You're not singing like a Wagner valkyrie, or taking twenty bows to the thunderous roar of applause."

  Now Cass really was getting under her skin.

  "Look. If you want to talk, that's fine by me. But don't lecture."

  "I'm not—"

  "Or argue," she snapped. "Otherwise, you can take your $6,000 and shove it up your ass."

  He blew out his breath and folded his arms across his chest.

  "Am I allowed to ask questions?" he countered testily.

  "Are they going to piss me off?"

  "Well, I don't know. You sure are on the warpath tonight."

  "I'm always on the warpath. That's why the Maker thatched me with red hair."

  "To warn foolish mortals?"

  "Something like that."

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. But amusement had crowded out the ire in his gaze. "I like your hair."

  "Then you must like my temper."

  "I wouldn't go that far."

  She threw a pillow at him.

  He caught it easily and grinned. "Girl, you are somethin' else."

  She chuckled.

  He perched on the edge of the bed, dropping the pillow against the headboard. "I never thought I'd see you again," he said huskily.

  "Uh... kismet?"

  "I think about you every day. Just ask Lynx."

  He radiated an honesty that was disconcerting. The brighter Cass's torch for her blazed, the more she felt scorched by the heat. She assured herself that he was stuck in some adolescent fantasy. That his real infatuation was a big-busted valkyrie with Viking horns and a sword.

  "Poor Lynx. You probably gab his ear off about me, too."

  Cass's golden lashes fanned lower, veiling the yearning in his gaze. He was staring with renewed interest at her lips.

  Hallelujah. We're getting somewhere.

  "Someone has to. Gab, that is," Cass murmured. "If Lynx had his druthers, the ride from Bandera to Dodge would be one big, silent Vision Quest."

  "That's a lot of silence."

  "You see my point?"

  "I see you talk too much, cowboy."

  A reluctant flicker of mirth stole across his chiseled features—features so golden-brown, that they might have adorned a sun god.

  And yet, sitting in the heat that pulsed from his black-sheathed length, she noticed that Cass exuded an unconscious earthiness, one that Billy had tried to fake in his inexperience. Cass's lips were full and firm—sensuous, hinting at secrets. A man's golden stubble gilded his chin, and a man's steely will squared what once had been a boy's stubborn jaw.

  When Cass leaned closer, cupping her chin, his fingertips pulsed with masculine strength. They were callused, but they felt warm and gentle on her skin. "You think I'm all talk and no action, eh?"

  "Well... you have been surprisingly slow to claim your prize." She arched an eyebrow, daring him to take her on.

  A dimple creased his cheek. His smirk was wholly masculine and shamelessly confident in his primal allure. The proof of that animal magnetism sent a shock wave through her feminine core, one that made her Tigress purr. A delicious little thrill coursed her spine to know that Cass Cassidy was every bit the Coyote that she'd first thought him to be.

  Still, he reined in his baser self, letting her mouth water for his kisses. He drank her in with those mesmerizing eyes, eyes that glowed with so many mingled shades of heaven that it was impossible to discern where one stopped and the next began: turquoise, azure, cyan, midnight-blue, black-velvet.

  She searched those lambent depths for the untold tales of daily living that had shaped the character of the man. Considering that he'd been on the run for nearly nine years, she figured that he must have exhumed a long-dormant innocence for her sake. She supposed she should be flattered that he'd risen above a renegade's habitual cynicism and distrust to treat her with sensitivity and respect.

  The problem was, she didn't know how to behave in the face of so much chivalry. She'd never had a knight in shining armor come to her bed before.

  "So..." She cleared her throat, searching for a bridge so the noble knight could ride into her sordid world. "How did you get dubbed the Rebel Rutter?"

  "Trade secret."

  "Whipped cream? Feathers? Fur?"

  "Naw."

  She cocked her head. "Lasso and bandanna?"

  He darted a less-than-noble glance at the garters spanning her exposed thighs. "That could be fun."

  Her belly heated at the wicked promise throbbing just beneath the surface of his drawl. "You're the one who wanted to talk, Cassidy. So fess up."

  "Well... all right." He let the other dimple peek. "Exceptional stamina."

  She gave him a Cheshire-cat grin. "That's new."

  "I've been practicing," he said drolly.

  "For a reunion with me?"

  "Sure."

  Liar. She was thoroughly enjoying his game now. "Show me."

  "Someday."

  "Not tonight?"

  "Tonight, I'm being a gentleman."

  "Lucky me. Sounds like I'll be getting plenty of sleep."

  She shrieked when he pounced, bowling her back into the pillows.

  "You're a saucy wench," he growled.

  "You like saucy."

  He chuckled, the sound low and deep, vibrating into her belly through the heat of his buckle. "Saucy's better than spoiled."

  "Or virginal," she dead-panned.

  His teeth flashed in that wily, Coyote grin that was all Cass, and no Billy. "Oh, I don't know. Teaching has its merits."

  She smirked, sliding a bold hand over his derriere. "Depends on the student."

  "I'll consider that a compliment."

  "You do that," she said huskily, kneading his buttocks with catlike finesse. "So tell me, lover. Whose turn is it to play teacher? Yours or mine?"

  "Definitely mine," he growled, slanting his mouth across hers.

  Sadie grinned at the memory.

  Then she loosed a wistful sigh, her gaze straying once more to their interlaced fingers. He'd captured them between their chests. If she shimmied forward a bare inch, her breast would have brushed his knuckles. The thought made the nipple pucker, eager for another fondling from the masterful lover that her Billy had turned out to be.

  She found herself trying to fit memories of the gleaming white butt of the scrawny adolescent, shrieking his Rebel Yell and cannon-balling into the river, with the peaceful, six-foot man-god, whose nether region was wrapped in her checkered quilt. She admired the gold-streaked mane, the sun-kissed eyelashes, the sensitive lips that parted so sweetly in invitation.

  Don't, her practical self chided. Don't think of him as sweet, noble, or endearing. Don't look upon him as a knight, a gentleman, or even a lover. He's a John. Just a John. And like all the other Johns who've slept in this bed, he'll eventually rut his fill and ride on.

  She struggled against the downward sp
iral of despair. She wanted so much more than four ruts per night. Someday, before the bloom of youth withered from her cheeks, she wanted to run her own house. She wanted to rescue destitute, orphaned girls from the street, teach them the power of beauty and sexual allure, show them how to thrive—not just survive—in a man's callous world.

  If her protégés were smart, and they showed a knack for business, then Sadie wanted to teach them how to play the players. That way, her girls could save a nice little nest egg for the years when their own bloom withered.

  Her gaze drifted back to Cass, and she listened to the steady thrumming of his heart.

  To become independent and run her own business—that was Sadie's dream. More than that, it was her plan. To succeed, she couldn't let sentiment distract her. She couldn't let herself develop feelings for a man—especially a man like Cass.

  Forget, for the moment, that every two-bit gunfighter with a hankering for fame would be itching to challenge him after his showboating tonight.

  Forget, too, that his good looks would let him cast aside conquests as fast as he did cigarette butts.

  Sadie absolutely couldn't bear to lose another person whom she loved. She would rather kill herself than live through that kind of grief again. That's why she'd determined to become a business woman.

  Never falling in love: that was the heart of Sadie's plan.

  Chapter 5

  FORBIDDEN TRYST

  Wrestling with guilt, Sadie eased from her bed before the ruddy fingers of dawn could poke past the shutter's sun-weathered slats. As much as she would have liked to dismiss Rexford Sterne as an overbearing tyrant—like every other tin-star whose lust she'd suffered since the age of 13—she'd still spent many sleepless hours, wondering what he'd meant by his parting shot:

  "I'll be lodging at the Harvey House tonight if you want to know how Roarke Michelson really died."

  Surely, Sterne wanted sex. An aging wolf, who was accustomed to enforcing his dominance over lesser mongrels, wouldn't slink away with his tail tucked between his legs just because Coyote Cass had entered his territory.

  Unable to compete with Cass's $6,000 or the appeal of his youth, Sterne had probably realized he needed leverage. He'd probably trumped up some lie about Daddy, dangling it like a carrot in an attempt to lure her into a rendezvous.