Pistols and Petticoats (A Historical Western Romance Anthology) Read online

  That's what Sadie wanted to believe.

  But no matter how many times Sadie told herself that Rexford Sterne was a manipulative monster who ate little children for breakfast, she couldn't stop thinking about the bomb he'd dropped. What made Sterne think Daddy hadn't really been ambushed by Union sympathizers? And why was a Ranger mucking around in her family's affairs eleven years after the fact?

  Sadie suspected that Sterne planned to ride out of town at sunrise. Rangers never stayed in one place for long, and besides, the inference had been implied. She wanted answers to her questions, and that meant confronting Sterne before he left for parts unknown.

  So gingerly, she tried to disguise her absence from the mattress by pushing her pillow into Cass's arms. He stirred and muttered, but a light touch and a husky murmur soothed him.

  With any luck, Cass would never realize she was gone. She would sneak out to the Harvey House and back to the saloon in time to fetch him breakfast. The less he knew about her troubles with Sterne, the safer he would be. The last thing her sweet Billy needed was a confrontation with a Texas lawman, who clearly had a long memory.

  Taking extra care not to step on her bedroom's creaking floorboard, she crept past her Spartan armoire (containing the eight tawdry dresses that comprised her entire wardrobe.) She knew just how to turn her door's knob to keep the hinges from squealing like pigs going to slaughter.

  She glanced over her shoulder one last time to make sure her tiptoeing hadn't wakened Cass before bolting on bare feet down the claustrophobic, vomit-scented stairwell. She gulped a breath of relief as she slipped out of the saloon's alley entrance. Her autumn-colored mane tumbled past her shoulders, and her black night wrapper billowed behind her like a pirate ship's sail. She figured it didn't matter. The sun wasn't yet up; she was well-recognized in every Front Street establishment for her profession; and besides, her working costume bared far more scandalous vistas of flesh than her wrapper did.

  She rounded the building's corner. Her pulse quickened when she heard the faint but steady chinking of spurs. Although the man was crossing Front Street some 100 paces ahead of her, she recognized Sterne's wolfish prowl, the ghostly gray of his Stetson, the fluttering, brown tent that served as his duster. She guessed his destination was the public livery, since he'd slung a saddlebag over his shoulder.

  She'd been right to rise early!

  So intent was she on intercepting him, that she never noticed the silent, rangy sentinel, observing her as she hurried past.

  "You're looking mighty fetching this morning, Miss Sadie."

  That rumbly, Texas drawl nearly made her jump out of her skin. Whirling to face her voyeur, she spied a puff of smoke curling toward the morning star; she recognized the exotic fragrance of cloves, mixed with oregano.

  "Meeting someone?" that all-too masculine voice demanded.

  She tensed. Her challenger was Jesse Quaid. He lounged in the lair that he'd carved from the shadows that hugged the saloon's alley wall. Lean and lithe, with all the latent power of a puma, the half-breed was leaning his broad shoulders against the building. He'd tucked his left heel under his buttocks and hooked his right hand over his belt. He looked deceptively at ease. But any man who strapped a Colt to his hip never dropped his guard.

  She glared a trifle nervously at Cass's friend. She'd heard rumors about this Jesse Quaid: that he was fast with his guns. That he was even faster with his fists. He had an Irish temper, an Indian's cunning, and a wildcat's ferocity in a brawl. Only an idiot wanted to make an enemy of a man who could melt into shadows, walk in silence, and hear as well as any four-footed predator.

  Jesse sucked on his smoke. He was clearly waiting for her to lie. Or maybe he was too busy judging her dishabille to care whether she told the truth. Above the ruddy glow of his cigarette, his striking, panther-green eyes smoldered with accusation.

  "That's right. I'm meeting someone." She hiked her chin. She didn't owe Jesse Quaid an explanation. "You have a problem with that?"

  "Not me." He exhaled. Twin streams of smoke spiraled over his chocolate-brown Stetson, reminding her uncomfortably of horns. Devil's horns. "But Cass might."

  "What are you? His mother?"

  His lips curved, revealing strong, white teeth. His smile wasn't pleasant. "Cass always did need the calming influence of a woman. To keep him from shooting things."

  Her chest heaved to imagine Cass drawing his guns on a Texas Ranger.

  She glanced toward the top of the alley. Sterne would have his horse saddled in half the time it took her to run to the livery. She didn't have the luxury to stand there, trading insults with Jesse.

  "I'll keep that in mind."

  Nodding curtly, she turned toward Front Street.

  "He thinks you hung the moon, you know."

  Dammit, Quaid, you're not making this easier.

  "Well, I didn't," she snapped, turning to face him once more. "And if you were half the friend you pretended to be, you'd rid him of such idiotic notions."

  "Tried that."

  Bastard.

  "And?" she fired back.

  "Cass has his own way of making up his mind."

  Bully for Billy. "Then maybe you should try Cass's way. I hear your kind likes tolerance."

  Jesse's eyes narrowed at her insinuation.

  So now he knew that she knew he was Colored. And that she wasn't the only one with a secret that could blow up in her face.

  The reason she wasn't pleading with Jesse to keep his mouth shut was because pleading would confirm his faulty suspicions about her and Sterne. She didn't want Cass to get jealous and hot-headed, and she certainly didn't want him to ride to her rescue. If Cass pulled a gun on a Ranger, extradition to Texas would be the least of his worries.

  "Cass and me go back a long way," Jesse said.

  She snorted. "Not as long as Cass and me."

  "You think your sex can rope him? He casts off a woman a day. Sometimes more."

  "And they're all White women too, I'll wager. What's the matter, Jess? You jealous? You tired of lying to strangers about your kin?"

  "Is that supposed to be a threat?"

  "Do you feel threatened by Cass and me?"

  They locked stares.

  Before either of their notorious, Irish tempers could heat to flash-point, Sadie heard a footstep and the scrabble of pebbles. She caught a whiff of lavender on the breeze. Someone giggled.

  Sadie recognized that giggle.

  Jesse recognized it too, apparently. He pushed himself away from the wall even as Liliana came barreling around the corner and threw herself into his arms.

  "Jesse!" the peroxide blonde greeted, wriggling like a kitten until her scantily clad breasts pressed flat against the green gingham that swaddled his chest. "Were you waiting long, my fearless Brave? Chalkey took the longest time to fall asleep."

  This time when Jesse's eyes locked with hers, Sadie thought she spied the glimmer of worry.

  He cleared his throat.

  Oblivious to this warning, the five-foot, four-inch Liliana tried to straddle his crotch until she realized she wasn't a contortionist. Either that, or she'd finally sensed the presence of a voyeur. She turned her head and caught her breath.

  "Oh." She sounded relieved when she recognized Sadie. "It's only you." Then, as if the gears in her brain had finally grinded out a full thought, Liliana's peaches-and-cream cheeks crumbled. "Can't you leave just one decent man for the rest of us?"

  "He's all yours, Lil," Sadie said dryly.

  The younger woman giggled like a child on Christmas Day. "You see, Jess?" she crooned, batting adoring eyes at the half-breed. "I told you she could be nice sometimes."

  Another lancet of guilt needled Sadie.

  "C'mon!" Gleefully, Liliana grabbed Jesse's hand. "Wilma's wagon is full of hay. No one will think to look for us there."

  Sadie fidgeted. Liliana clearly knew Jesse was Colored.

  Dammit, Lil.

  Sadie thought she should warn the couple against tak
ing foolish risks, although she didn't have the foggiest notion what she could say to quench two libidos eager for combustion. Jesse already thought she'd sneaked out of Cass's bed to rut with Sterne. He would taunt her for hypocrisy, while Lil...

  Lil didn't have the brains that God gave a turnip.

  But before Sadie could remind the younger woman of the dire consequences of "withholding wages" from a protector, hooves started clip-clopping along Front Street. Sadie could hear the rhythmic echoes bouncing off the false façades of the buildings.

  "Don't worry, lover," Liliana whispered, grinning up at Jesse and rubbing her hips against his. "I'll keep your fire burning 'til the coast is clear."

  Jesse's challenging gaze locked once more with Sadie's. She gritted her teeth.

  Sure enough, the rider was Sterne. He kicked his horse to a canter as he passed the alley entrance. When Jesse realized that Sterne was riding past the saloon, rather than into the alley, he relaxed a bit. His expression turned mocking. No doubt he thought that Sadie's secret lover had left her choking on his dust.

  "Respects, Miss Sadie," he drawled, touching his hat in farewell.

  Giggling some more, Liliana hurried him along the alley. The eager couple paused at the intersection, looked stealthily in both directions for voyeurs, then dashed hand-in-hand across Front Street.

  Impatiently, Sadie waited another judicious moment for the couple to disappear behind Wilma's carriage house. Then she ran as fast as she could to Front Street.

  But by the time she reached the intersection, Rexford Sterne was gone.

  Chapter 6

  HURRICANE RIDER

  Sparing a smoldering glance for Sadie's window across the street, Cass whirled with a vengeance and flung his whittling knife.

  The blade flipped in a deadly arc before thwacking into a wooden pillar of the public livery—and piercing dead center through a knothole that was the size of his pinky's fingernail.

  Wilma's entourage of soiled doves clapped and cooed. Wyatt Earp scowled, tossing a $20 gold piece to Lynx, who perched on a bale of hay, collecting Cass's earnings.

  "You see that cake of soap?" Wilma drawled.

  "I ain't blind," Earp snapped.

  "I'm betting Cass can stick a horsefly to it. By throwing with his left hand. At 10 paces."

  "Yeah?" Earp's eyes narrowed, darting from the second knife that Cass balanced in his palm, to the horsefly meandering over the soap.

  "If Cass succeeds," the sloe-eyed brunette taunted in her husky, Cajun accent, "you start paying for ruts in my house."

  Earp sneered. "And why would I take that bet?"

  "'Cause, cher, I'm staking Cass with Pearl." Wilma tugged an ivory-inlaid six-shooter from the holster that had been hidden by her taffeta ruffles.

  Avarice glittered in the lawman's eyes. "Pearl" had been hand-crafted by the gunsmith, Samuel Colt, for James Butler Hickok. "Wild Bill" had been Abilene's City Marshal when he'd lost the gun to Wilma during a Poker game about five years before his assassination. The .36 had been part of a matched pair of Navy Colts and had eventually been replaced by Hickok before his death. According to Wilma, the gunsmith had made the lawman swear to keep the new revolver "out of that crazy Voodoo Woman's hands."

  Wilma smiled pleasantly.

  Lynx looked amused.

  Cass folded his arms across his chest. He didn't like Earp. He didn't like any tin-star who demanded protection money from decent folk. But his real beef with the mustachioed deputy was that Earp had been coercing sex out of Sadie, Wilma, and the other working women of Dodge.

  Earp grunted. "Your bet's too rich for my blood." Hoisting his Winchester to his shoulder, he turned on his heel and stalked out into the early-morning sunshine.

  Wilma sighed in disappointment.

  "Sorry," Cass muttered.

  Wilma's manicured fingers—decorated with images of writhing, red snakes—patted his cheek in a motherly fashion. "You tried, cher. And I never forget a favor."

  "At least you got the information you wanted," Lynx drawled, straightening from the hay bale and dusting off his dungarees.

  "You mean about Sterne?" Cass snorted. "Hell. I could have told you he was some snooty Planter's son by the scotch he poured. Earp didn't do us any favors."

  "The only time I've ever seen this gunfighter," Wilma said, "was last night, standing by your Sadie on the porch." She arched an eyebrow at her girls. They hastily nodded in confirmation. "Perhaps he was merely passing through Dodge. If that is so, cher, you may be making mountains of molehills."

  She nodded her dark head in farewell.

  Cass cast a dubious glance at Sadie's window. "If Wilma doesn't know Sterne..."

  Lynx repositioned the hat on his head. "There are other brothels in Dodge. I'll ask around. Some bawd has to know something about Sterne."

  Cass hardened his jaw. Nodding, he retrieved his knife as Lynx headed for the street.

  As a champion mumblety-peg player, Cass liked to think that knife-throwing was his second-greatest skill. He used to consider it his third-greatest skill, right behind pleasuring women and trick-shooting.

  But in spite of Wilma's high praises, he apparently needed to strike rutting from his list of championship talents. Sometime after he'd fallen asleep last night, Sadie had sneaked out of his bed. Lynx had confirmed Cass's painful suspicion: that she'd headed off to see that dark-haired Old Fart. The one who'd been drinking Glenmorangie Scotch.

  Cass wanted to know what Sterne's business had been in Dodge; if he was expected to return; and when.

  More to the point, Cass wanted to know what this Sterne possessed that he didn't—besides money and good breeding, of course.

  The fact that Cass had grown up too poor to own shoes remained a festering wound. He was forever trying to shed the stigma of his White Trash heritage. Back in Pilot Grove, he'd brawled almost daily with high-falutin' planter's sons, who'd deemed him unworthy to breathe their air.

  As lowly, runt-sized Billy, he'd fought and scraped for every concession that he'd known: from the one-cent peppermint candies that his Pa had never been able to afford, to the plain, stone marker that he'd hauled five miles on his own aching back to commemorate his mother's grave.

  After emerging from the Lee-Peacock feud as the lone survivor of his father's clan, he'd dubbed himself "Cass"—the nickname of every Cassidy patriarch—in an effort to detract from his beardless mug and scrawny build. Puberty had finally given him a body that could withstand a bully's pounding and dole one out with equal force, but then he'd learned, to his chagrin, that planter's daughters turned up their noses at perfectly cordial young men, who doffed fraying straw hats or flirted in patched dungarees.

  To this day, no article of clothing that Cass owned had been tailor-made. He liked to think that his new hand-me-downs looked a lot less trashy than the ones he'd burned in Pilot Grove. From his coal-black Stetson to his fancy Justin boots, Cass had won his pitch-colored wardrobe one cannily targeted piece at a time, by challenging wealthy braggarts to "put up or shut up" in a shooting match or a knife-throwing contest. Hell, Rexford Sterne didn't dress with half his flair!

  Cass cast another narrow glance at Sadie's window. He simply couldn't understand what she saw in a sun-grizzled long-rider who was old enough to be her father. Sterne's Colt?

  Cass had two.

  His personality?

  Cass could charm the rattle off a rattler.

  His package?

  Cass snorted to himself. Since his 18th birthday, no woman had ever chosen another man over him strictly for sexual favors. Come to think of it, '76 had been the year when he'd finally learned how to hide his White Trash heritage with black clothes, sweet talk, and heroic gestures.

  But Sadie knew all about his White Trash heritage. Was that why she'd been so amused by his best attempts to behave like a gentleman last night?

  A muscle twitched in Cass's jaw. He figured he had two options: give Sadie plenty of rope to hang herself, or get busy proving he was the better
man. After another quarter hour of vicious knife-throwing—which collected him an impressive little mound of horsefly carcasses—he finally decided to stuff his anger and win back his woman.

  Paying a call on Rath, Cass spent a king's fortune in the General Store with the intention of pleasing Sadie. But when he swept through her bedroom door around 8 a.m., announcing his romantic idea to escort her to the riverbank for a picnic brunch, she turned him down flat.

  "Cass, I'm busy. Can't you see I'm writing a song?"

  Vaguely, he recalled that Sadie turned into a fire-breathing dragon if someone dared to interrupt her creative frenzies. Eight years ago, she'd said something about her Calliope needing undivided attention; otherwise, her rhymes went up in smoke. This explanation had never made much sense to Cass, since Sadie played the harmonica, banjo, and piano—not the calliope.

  He cocked his head, studying her for a moment, plotting his strategy. His ornery lover—who was going to the riverbank with him; she just didn't know it yet—was sitting with her spine propped up by pillows against the headboard of her unmade bed. Her glorious red-gold curls tumbled in every conceivable direction over the sagging, ebony lace of her night wrapper. A sea of yellowed papers surrounded her exquisitely long legs, bared up to the thighs. Those papers had lots of black lines, little bitty symbols, and tea-cup stains.

  In fact, the whole room smelled like mint and rosehips, Sadie's favorite brew. The teapot—and a pair of greasy, sunny-side-up eggs—sat forgotten where she'd left them: on a chipped china platter atop the traveling trunk at the foot of her bed.

  Fleetingly, Cass noticed the scrapes in the floorboards and the disturbed layers of dust that surrounded that trunk. He wondered what Sadie was hiding under those pinewood planks. He made a mental note to investigate later, when she was suitably distracted in the taproom.

  "The sun is shining!" he cajoled.

  "Yes, well, it's daylight, isn't it?" she retorted absently, her bare toes wiggling to some inner rhythm as she scribbled a few more symbols on the paper in her lap.