Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) (35 page)

"Sadie," he begged, his throat aching, "please don't cry. I won't let anyone hurt you. Not ever again."

"How can you do that if you leave me?"

"I'm not going to leave you."

"You
always
leave me! Like you did in Pilot Grove!"

"But sweetheart, I had to. The law was hot on my trail—"

"You left me in
Dodge
because of the law, too!"

He winced, guilt searing his gut. "I was an uncurried fool. I should have believed you—"

"And then you left me in
Galveston!"

"Oh God," he groaned, burying his face in her curls. "I'll
never
forgive myself for that. Never."

She sniffled.

A moment passed.

"Well, I did tell you to leave that time," she conceded grudgingly. "For your own good. Before you got recognized at the Satin Siren."

"Doesn't matter."

She fidgeted, wiping her cheek against his bandanna.

"But you couldn't have known there'd be a fire in my bedroom," she said, her voice muffled and contrite against his shirt collar. "No one could have known. And I really was glad to see you alive and healthy. And looking so fine. After Wyatt Earp ran you out of Dodge, I had no way of knowing how you were. Or where you were. Or if I'd ever see you again!"

Cass's heart swelled at her confession. He knew how much Sadie deplored "icky, sappy, girly feelings," as her 15-year-old self had once described them. Unless Sadie was singing to a hundred adoring men from the safety of a stage, sentiment rarely crossed her lips. In private, Sadie preferred to joke. Or throw things.

"Sadie," he murmured, "do you remember what I promised you that last night we were together in Dodge?"

Gently, insistently, he raised her head. Spiky, tear-drenched lashes quivered over luminous jewels. Sparkles of topaz, citrine, and amber flashed like sunshine in her eyes. She was his dawn. The power to light his whole world.

"I promised that someday, I would teach you how to love," he said huskily. "And I promised, too, you would like it." He ran the pad of his thumb along her bottom lip. "That time has come, darlin'."

As Cass lowered his head, Sadie trembled. How could she have forgotten a promise like that? Four years ago, she had dared to fantasize, picturing what life might have been like, if she could be free of her brothel contract and he could be free of the bounty on his head. But less than an hour later, Cass had ridden out of town, and she'd been painfully reminded her lover was a master of pretty words and ardent declarations. Never the truth.

Now Cass was a Ranger. That meant he couldn't be hers today any more than he'd been hers as an outlaw. But as lightning sizzled beyond the windows of their love lair, Sadie kissed him anyway. It was a way of keeping him close. Of distracting him. Of saving him from Hank and the hangman. In the harsh, clear light of dawn, when she had to face the tyranny of her conscience, she knew she could let Cass go, if he wouldn't be happy to stay in her arms. What she couldn't do was go on living, if she knew he'd never wake up to see the sunrise.

His tongue tangled with hers, the heady taste of spiced ardor. His clothes smelled of tobacco, leather, and horse, but the fragrance of sandalwood clung to his skin, making her long to lick the brine from his chest—and lap up the flavors beckoning much lower.

Slyly, he slipped the tie of her robe. Silk slithered in a puddle to her ankles. Her nakedness flushed, brazed by the promise of his caress. When he swept her up in his arms, his mouth was still feasting on hers. He carried her to the bed, pausing only long enough to unbuckle his guns and kick off his boots. Then he was sinking with her into the soft pelage of wolf and puma.

With a hungry little growl, she made short work of the buttons on his fly while his muscular shoulders shrugged off his shirt. She enjoyed sliding her palms over the tawny fur of his chest, tracing the golden down over rock-ribbed planes. Wickedly, she buried her fingers in the springy little curls that cradled his virility. When she squeezed, dragging her thumbnail along his ridged trigger, he growled in return.

But he wouldn't let her stroke that princely shaft. Instead, he insisted on her pleasure. After enduring years of groping from drunken, belching clods, Sadie craved a lighter, more creative touch. Instinctively, Cass understood this. His sensitivity to her tiniest tremor, her softest sigh, was a wet dream come true.

Her eyelashes fluttered closed. A dreamy languor weighted her limbs. Oh, the things the Rebel Rutter could do with his tongue! His sly, persistent kisses could make her forget who she was. Where she was. Whether heaven was up or down. He could coax tremors of ecstasy with just that clever, mobile mouth! His ability was a rare, advanced skill—and a point of pride with him.

She smiled a little at the memories.

But today he took another, more leisurely route to her satisfaction. As thunder shook the walls, he worshipped her body, every inch—every freckle. She squirmed in helpless delight as he sucked her ticklish navel; she laughed as his tongue flicked, serpent-like, between her toes. She trembled with anticipation as his stubbled chin gently scraped the quivering, inner flesh of her thigh. At last, moist little gusts of heat were tantalizing her cleft.

"Cass," she breathed, half plea, half sigh.

The pad of his thumb was callused—devastating to her restraint. He knew that. He plied it anyway.

She arched helplessly, and he feasted.

It wasn't just his tender nipping or the wicked thrusting of his fingers that drove her wild. It was the deep, guttural growl of his satisfaction. Like some great, predatory beast, he was intent on devouring his fill. The slurping and the panting made her ooze with shameless wanting. She grabbed a fistful of his hair to encourage his feeding.

Contrary as usual, he caught her wrists and stretched them over her head.

"But Cass—"

"Silence, wench. I'll please you any damned way I want."

"Like hell."

He chuckled wolfishly.

It was the old game, and she loved it—especially when he entered her with a juicy sound
.

His fingers twined with hers. "Ever fly to the moon?" he taunted huskily.

She bit back a moan. "Not with you."

"Liar." Sharp little teeth prickled her earlobe. "I think I'll stop."

"I'll kill you!"

"That's my angel."

Her breaths were ripping now. Every fiber of her being threatened to splinter with sensation. Like some crazy, chaotic kaleidoscope, he had her spinning out of control. Fire and ice, silence and thunder—her senses were imploding. And then, just when she didn't think she could bear another exquisite second of his love-making, she shattered into a hundred-million prism pieces, careening through rainbows like a wild, shooting star.

His hands gripped hers hard as she rocketed through that blizzard of sparkles.

"Through all time, you and me: born for you,"
he crooned the lyrics in her ear.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. One by one, he kissed them away. With infinite tenderness, he smoothed the tangle of curls from her swollen cheek. Then he folded her against his chest. She clung to his neck, afraid to speak the words that ached to be freed.

I love you, Cass.

The sweet, steady thrumming of his heart was like a lullaby. Feeling safe for the first time since Galveston, she closed her eyes and slept.

Chapter 19

As shadows lengthened across the bed, Cass lay beside Sadie, watching her breathe. His throat ached to spy the glistening trace of a tear; his blood boiled to see the gash and the puffy, green-black bruise that marred her perfect beauty. If he used his imagination, he could picture the outline of knuckles and the wedding ring that had raised that shiner.

His lips twisted in a silent snarl.

After those headlines in the
Dispatch,
he didn't need a crystal ball to know Baron was responsible. Cass now understood why Sadie had hidden in the shadows—and why Wilma had tried to send him away. Their efforts had only delayed the inevitable. Cass didn't give a rat's ass if Baron was sick. Or a senator. The bastard was
not
going to get away with hitting his woman!

With the stealth of his canine namesake, Cass slipped from the bed and gathered his clothes. In a brothel, nobody cared about the proprieties, so he dressed in the hall and buckled on his guns. The familiar weight of his six-shooters brought to mind another problem.

Hank.

Cass muttered an oath as the name rolled through his mind. He'd almost forgotten his vow to determine what had really happened between Baron and The Ventilator at Aquacia Bathhouse.

Well, Baron can tell me himself when I drag him out of that hospital bed.

Retrieving one of his three widdies—in this case, the decoy he liked to let lawmen find in his hatband—Cass relocked Sadie's door. Grimacing with the effort, he bent the slender pick and snapped off its tip in the keyhole.

That should keep the spitfire from tracking killers by her lonesome.

As he descended to the first landing, he glanced out the vaulted windows. Shafts of light punched through pewter storm clouds. He figured the hour was after four o'clock. Sundown was about 90 minutes away. Across the street, candle flames flickered in the jack o' lanterns, smiling so gruesomely from a neighbor's porch steps. Silhouetted by the setting sun, a man in a chocolate Stetson loitered in that yard. He perched on a hay bale like some reckless scarecrow, tapping cigarette ash and blowing rings of smoke into the breeze.

Other than daring the devil by smoking on a flammable seat, the man wasn't remarkable. He had a brown duster. Brown boots. Brown hair. Nevertheless, prickles of warning sprinkled Cass's scalp.

Hank?

Cass couldn't see the man's face, but his instincts had never failed him. Determined to confront his nemesis, Cass crawled out the parlor window to avoid Cotton.

But when Cass rounded the building, a buckboard of whooping, dark-skinned children rolled down the center of Third Street. The boys were throwing straw at each other. The girls were eating soul cakes and sugar skulls. Cass guessed the black-robed padre was driving the orphans to a Halloween fandango.

Only a few seconds ticked by as the church wagon trundled past, but when the dust settled, Cass realized the man on the hay bale had vanished.

Muttering an oath, Cass checked the bullets in his guns and headed for the livery. He hoped to challenge Hank there, but when he reached the stable yard, he realized he'd followed a dead trail, at least where The Ventilator was concerned. Cass did find a roan tethered next to Pancake; however, the gelding wasn't Rhubarb.

A fresh wave of worry plagued Cass's gut. Where the hell was Collie? And why hadn't he stopped Baron from hitting Sadie? Collie could be a surly cuss, but he had his priorities straight. If he'd thought Baron was in a fist-swinging mood, the kid would have protected Sadie, not abandoned her.

Mounting up, Cass turned Pancake toward the town's hospital. But he hadn't cantered more than a block when he spied a commotion near the Public Square. A small but noisy crowd of
Tejanos
had gathered beside the red-and-white pole of Boomer's Barbershop. By the time Cass had ridden the distance, Sid had arrived on the scene.

"All right, all right, simmer down," the marshal boomed.
"Silencio!"
he added, wading through the anxious
Tejanos
. "There are no such things as goblins. Not even in cemeteries."

"But little Pedro saw a monster!" cried a chubby
señora
.

"And evil fire magic!" a youthful voice chimed in.

"The monster called down thunder," shouted another boy from the rear. "He blasted a hole in the old caretaker's door!"

"Sí!"
shouted several
niňos.

Sid snorted, folding brawny arms across his chest. "And just what were you boys doing on Mr. Oldham's property?
After dark?"

A guilty hush settled over the younger members of the audience.

Sid drilled his gunfighter's glare into one of the shorter hecklers. "Well, Joaquin?"

The boy fidgeted, averting his eyes. "Er... I think I was lost,
señor.
On my way home from church."