Chapter 9

Cass figured any man who called himself Sledgehammer frequented prizefights.

Leaving Pryce in the excellent care of Mattie's physician, Cass cantered along 19th Street to the Highlands. Never mind that bare-knuckles boxing contests were illegal. Immigrants, especially Irish immigrants, considered fisticuffs the epitome of manly strength and courage. Dozens of Denver's police had risen from the ranks of Irish sluggers, so contests rarely got raided, especially in the Highlands, where promoters only received a wink and a nod. In truth, Cass expected to see many of Denver's off-duty constables at the Bust-a-Gut Saloon. He could hear the roar of bettors a block away.

The exhibition ring was located inside the saloon on an elevated stage overlooking the ice floes in the river. This arrangement allowed irate bettors to haul losing pugilists out the door and heave them into the Platte.

Silhouetted against the glare of lanterns, Porfi wasn't hard to spy above the booing, hissing crowd of all-male spectators. The boisterous Greek stood atop a chair, behind a makeshift counter that spanned two pickle barrels. Stacked before him were pork gyros, cheese pies, and lamb kebobs. He was swinging his apron over his head and bellowing, "Dunk the vlacas!" at the top of his lungs. Apparently, Porfi had bet on the beefy, red-haired palooka who'd just been KO'd by a well-muscled, Indian half-breed.

Cass smiled nostalgically, remembering his long-time compadre, Lynx. The Cherokee had rustled, smuggled, and hurrahed alongside him for 11 straight years until Sera had made an honest husband of him. Nowadays, Lynx worked as the sheriff of Blue Thunder, Kentucky, but during his outlaw career, he used to brawl like a wildcat.

Cass waved to catch Porfi's attention.

"Didn't I always tell you, 'Bet on the Injun?'" Cass yelled over the sea of bobbing bowlers and caps. "Lynx only lost me two wagers in 11 years!"

Porfi scowled at Cass's taunt and slapped his hand away from a basket of cheese pies. "Just for that, boyo, pitakias will cost you a buck."

"I'll give you two bucks to help me find a particular nobody."

"Favors cost five."

"So Dame Fortune knocked you on your kolos tonight, eh?"

"You want to owe me ten?" Porfi growled.

Cass grinned. "Only if you toss in a pitakia. With plenty of honey."

"You're a malaka. But you have a deal." Porfi reached for the honey pot. "So." He was drizzling amber-colored sweetness over the biggest cheese pie in the tray. "Have you attended the opera lately?"

"Soon," Cass said breezily.

"Must I be on my deathbed for this prize you promised?"

"Hope not."

Porfi shook his head in exasperation. "I shoulda put my bet on him."

Cass snorted at this reference to Maestro. "You mean the fella who cuts you out of every deal?"

"At least he's a working man."

"Aw. You hurt my feelings."

"Good." Porfi thrust the pie, wrapped in wax paper, into Cass's hand. "If you wait much longer, you won't be the new prince of anything."

Cass sucked honey off his thumb. "Why? You hear something?"

"I hear a lot of things."

"Like what?"

"Like he set his sights on Italy."

Cass stiffened.

"A humidor that makes music," Porfi added.

Cass's shoulders relaxed. Porfi wasn't talking about Sadie. "You think he'll make an appearance at the Rothschild's auction?"

Porfi nodded. "Word is, he likes novelties. Jewelry boxes, pocket watches, wind-up toys—anything that plays a tune. Rothschild's will be auctioning a green cigar box that's worth a fortune to collectors."

Thoughtfully, Cass bit into his pie. He'd always thought the jewelry box with the enameled peacock was a bit too frou-frou for Sadie's tastes. Maybe she'd been keeping it as evidence.

He made a mental note to ask her.

Porfi changed the subject. "Who's this Nobody you're looking for?"

Cass shrugged. "I don't know his name. He's middle-aged. Probably German. He's got mallet-sized fists and a build like a brawler. I don't think he's been in the ring, though, since his nose is as straight as a razor. He's a few inches shorter than I am. Sandy hair. Green eyes. Talks like he's chewing on gravel. The cleft in his chin could roost a canary."

Porfi chuckled. "A German who roosts canaries on his face. Now that rings a bell."

"Does it?"

"Nope."

Cass shot him a withering glare. "Now who's the malaka?"

A flash of white in Porfi's beard betrayed a mischievous grin. "From my point of view, a grunt like that would be sucking suds, not stuffing his pie-hole with cheese." He jerked his head toward the staircase.

Cass followed Porfi's gaze and spied Sledgehammer, standing apart from the bettors with his shoulder propped against the railing. He was polishing off a brew.

"Much obliged," Cass said, flipping a coin.

"Don't you forget it," the Greek retorted, deftly snatching the half-eagle from the air.

As the intermission crowd descended like locusts on Porfi's counter, Cass took a circuitous route to Sledgehammer. He used this time to study the Pinkerton, noting how the older man seemed to blend into the stairwell's shadows. This feat surprised at least one red-faced bettor, who tipped his hat and stammered apologies for nearly colliding with the detective.

Sledgehammer wore his bowler low over his forehead and disdained the comfort of gloves, which let Cass notice, again, just how big the Pinkerton's knuckles were. Even if Sledgehammer wasn't a contender, he should have been. He had beefy arms and a barrel-sized chest that would have strained the buttons of his Chesterfield if the charcoal wool hadn't been tailored so well.

By the time Cass drew close enough to sneak up on the detective, Sledgehammer was tugging a stogie from his coat pocket.

Cass let the hiss of a striking match announce his arrival.

Sledgehammer didn't look surprised to see his rival materialize beside him, which annoyed Cass. In truth, a lot about the detective annoyed Cass, not the least of which was Sledgehammer's failure to protect the women under his command.

"Thought you'd want to know," Cass said acidly, cupping the flame so Sledgehammer could light his cigar. "Pryce survived his drive to Holladay Street. Barely."

Sledgehammer's expression never changed as he puffed, focusing on the tip of his smoke. "Is that name supposed to mean something to me?"

Cass reined in his temper. He didn't know what response he'd expected from the detective, but at the very least, Sledgehammer should have inquired after Sadie's well-being.

"Maybe you know this Pryce by another name. Like Lickspittle. Or Screw Up," Cass added, lighting a pre-rolled quirley for himself. "In any event, he got the tar beat out of him in Mattie's alley. Which served him right. He let the woman he was protecting fight off three bushwhackers with a button and a cane."

Sledgehammer exhaled a stream of smoke. "Sounds like a helluva woman."

"And you're a sorry bastard."

"Funny. She said the same thing about you. The morning after you robbed her."

Cass's eyes narrowed. Somehow, he couldn't picture Sadie confessing to the man who had the power to send her back to the whorehouse that she'd been duped by her outlaw lover.

"Your boss must pay screw-ups good wages," Cass countered, referring to the Galveston brothel that had burned to the ground last summer. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be able to afford an Imperial topaz for my woman."

Sledgehammer didn't bat an eye. "Is that why Daredevil was born?"

"Is that name supposed to mean something to me?" Cass fired back.

The ghost of a smile touched Sledgehammer's lips. "You mustn't read the newspaper much—contrary to the claims made by a certain dame."

"Who has time to read? I want to trap a coyote, not cogitate about it. Speaking of which, I don't appreciate your choice of bait in this hunt."

Sledgehammer raised his shoulders in an indolent shrug. "The bait, if you haven't noticed, keeps insisting on the role, much to my aggravation."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means, if I had my way, she'd be safe and sound in Texas."

Cass digested this news. He wasn't sure he believed it. Sledgehammer had already lied to him once tonight.

But Cass knew the value of alliances, even the uneasy ones. Eleven years ago, when he'd stumbled across a Cherokee half-breed, who'd needed saving from the Ku Klux Klan, he'd forged a lifelong bond with that stranger. Lynx had eventually become his most trustworthy friend.

"Sounds like we have something in common," Cass said grudgingly.

"We're both bastards?"

"That makes two things in common."

Sledgehammer's lips twitched. "I saw you talking to the Greek."

"He bakes damned good pies."

"Uh-huh."

"You got a problem with pies?" Cass demanded.

"Only when they're baked with rocks."

Cass was careful to keep his Poker face. Porfi was rumored to bake loot into his confections so he could smuggle jewels out of his shop. "You're barking up the wrong tree if that's where you're looking for a certain silver magnate's missing rock."

"And you know this because...?"

"Me and Porfi go back a long way."

"And of course, Porfi never lies to his friends," Sledgehammer said dryly.

"Maybe if you had a few friends of your own, in the right places, you wouldn't be so quick to judge."

"And what places might those be?"

"Places that welcome coyotes, but not the fellas who hunt them."

Sledgehammer tapped ash. His eyes were fixed on Porfi; his expression remained as placid as a pond on a windless day. Still, Cass sensed the detective was considering the proposal.

"Seems like the right coyote could be useful," Sledgehammer conceded. "If he has a knack for digging. And the smarts not to get caught."

Cass snorted. He'd assumed Sledgehammer was familiar with his legend. Since going on the run at the tender age of 13, Cass had been brought to trial only once, and that was because he'd surrendered to clear his name. Last summer in Texas, the courts had exonerated him for killing Cousin Bobby's murderer in self-defense.

Dropping his smoke, Cass rubbed it out with his toe. "I'll be in touch, pard."

Mace continued to puff his cigar as he watched Sadie's outlaw lover stroll toward the exit with his usual, cocksure gait. Cassidy had arrived on a whiff of sandalwood. Now, thanks to the steady breeze blowing through the windows, the fragrance of lemongrass soap warned Mace another male was approaching.

"Damn," whispered the mousy-haired youth with the wire-rimmed spectacles. "Who was that?"

"Picture the same mug without the beard."

The junior agent sucked in his breath. "Lucifire?"

Mace frowned at the admiration in the youth's tone. He happened to know Sadie had written the Ballad of Lucifire long before Cassidy had set foot in East Texas for the first time in 11 years. Cassidy had adopted the name to fuel his legend. He fancied himself a "devil with a gun."

And sure, Cassidy was a showboating quickdraw; Mace would give him that. Cassidy was also a crass southern cracker, a notorious debaucher, and an unrepentant felon, whose thieving record stretched longer than Mace's arm.

"But the warrants say he wears a double-holstered rig," the junior agent protested. "And he always carries two guns!"

Mace's smile was mirthless. The young Pinkerton—better known as Ambrosius "Brodie" Darling—had spent all of three months in Denver. He'd left his home to save the world because, apparently, Bloomington, Indiana, didn't need saving.

"A man doesn't need a hip holster to carry a gun," Mace reminded his trainee.

"Right." Furrows creased Brodie's high, sensitive brow. "So what's the plan?"

"We'll wait. See what he turns up."

"Then he is on our side," the First-Year concluded eagerly.

Mace snorted.

Brodie's scrupulously shaved face turned crimson. "I just thought, maybe, since he offered to help us out, you'd want to retract your complaint," he whispered uneasily. "You know. About that special commission."

"Hell no." Mace's lip curled as he tossed aside his stogie. Brodie had read too many penny dreadfuls, touting the courage, honor, and invincibility of Rangers. "This isn't Texas. And I'm not a fool, like Rexford Sterne."

* * *

Sadie lay muttering in her bed, plagued by a recurring dream with a frightening new twist.

"Sing the fairy song, Sadie!" Maisy called, blowing dandelion seeds on the wind.

Mama had told them to hike to the riverbank, a half-mile from their east Texas home. She'd given Maisy and Sadie strict orders not to return until their wicker basket was full of blackberries. At the rate they were going, that would be midnight. Maisy, the perennial dreamer, was hunting for daisies to fashion a circlet for her flame-red head, and Sadie was shoving one berry in her mouth for every two she picked.

She set down the basket in a shady patch of grasses, beneath a grand old cypress tree. Hiking her stained pinafore, she curtsied before her older twin and belted out a spring song. Maisy joined in the second verse, which was her favorite part:

"The fairies spread their sil'vry wings

To shower love on earthly things,

The dewy grass, the fragrant flowers

Bloom with beauty from fey powers..."

Laughing, Maisy twirled around, losing a blizzard of dandelion seeds. An errant gust of wind snatched the bonnet off her head. Giving chase, the innocent fluttered her arms like make-believe wings.

That's when Sadie noticed the stranger.

Ageless and timeless, with a pale face that somehow resisted the heat, the man stood on the riverbank, silhouetted against the sun. Despite the mid-day hour, he'd dressed in immaculate evening attire, from his gleaming silk top hat to his dove gray gloves and polished opera pumps. He wasn't overtly threatening as he leaned upon his walking stick, but Sadie sensed something about him wasn't right. For one thing, the wind didn't riffle his long swallowtails or slicked back hair. For another, his eyes were black. All black.

Laughing and leaping, Maisy was too busy pretending to be a fairy in flight to notice the silent sentinel with the creepy eyes. When her bonnet tumbled past his shoes, the stranger didn't lift a finger to fetch it. Nor did he call a warning about the rushing river, like other adults would have done.

"Let the bonnet go," Sadie called uneasily. "You can wear mine!"

"But Mama will be angry," Maisy said, swooping for the fluttering muslin.

That's when the unthinkable happened. Maisy slid in the mud and rolled down the bank. The sound of her splash was like an alpine blast to Sadie's soul.

Desperately, she hiked her skirts and ran after her sister. But the horrible, black-eyed man raised his palm. A cypress root snaked out of the ground, snagging Sadie's ankle. She struggled against the evil cypress tree as the relentless current swept Maisy further and further away in a bubbling froth of green dye. Sadie screamed and screamed Maisy's name until she grew too hoarse to squeak. But Maisy's precious, red head never surfaced again.

Sobbing, Sadie turned helplessly to the man, who could only have been the Angel of Death. In his arms, he held a freckled, curly-haired child—a child wearing a circlet of daisies and shining angel wings. Smiling her ethereal smile, Maisy blew Sadie a kiss with a dimpled hand.

"Maisy, don't leave me!"

"I'll always watch over you, sister."

Suddenly, the sky grew dark, and the wind began to keen. Maisy disappeared with the stranger. In their place appeared another muslin bonnet, burning black eyes, and an enormous, wooden cross.

"Beware the devil's tune," Rebekah intoned in a voice like crashing thunder. "Or marked for death you will be..."

Sadie gasped and jerked awake. Daylight was edging across her pillow. She sucked down great gulps of air, trying to sooth the erratic speeding of her heart. Her limbs were shaking. Her skin was clammy.

Thank God. It was only a dream.

Turning her head to check the clock, she came face to face with black eyes and a furry snout. She nearly shrieked.

"Son of a—"

Vandy whuffed affectionately and snuggled against her breasts.

Sadie scowled. The coon had been sleeping on his side, his head resting on her pillow. Tucked under his jaw was his right hind leg, which had been bandaged in what looked suspiciously like a piece of her other pillowcase.

"Who let you in?"

Vandy's tail flopped possessively over her bare arm. He yawned, revealing formidable fangs. The stench of carrion wafted over her face.

"Is that a flea on my quilt? So help me God, that had better not be a flea!"

Vandy licked her nose.

I'm going to kill that kid.

A jaunty rap rattled her door. "Room service!"

Sadie's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Throwing back the quilt, she rolled off the other side of the bed, grabbed her .32 from the nightstand, and snatched a black satin robe from the post.

"I didn't order room service!"

"Compliments of the fine gentleman," insisted that muffled, male voice from the hall.

Fine gentleman? Sadie's heart quickened. Did he mean Dante?

Hastily tying her belt, she padded on bare feet to the door. When she cracked it open, she spied a mahogany-skinned bellhop in blue hotel livery. He was accompanied by a linen-draped cart with a silver-domed serving dish. He looked legitimate. Slipping her pistol into a pocket, but keeping her thumb on the hammer, she pulled the door wider.

That's when she spied Lucifire, leaning against the wall in his trademark Stetson, black shirt and chaps.

"Mornin', Sunshine," he drawled.

The bellhop had already wheeled the cart's front wheels across the threshold; otherwise, she would have slammed the door in Cass's face.

"I'll take it from here," he told the kid with a wink.

The bellhop grinned and caught Cass's coin before retreating for the elevator.

Sadie seethed, and not just because her ex-lover had hoodwinked her again. At 6:45 a.m., after a restless night, her hair resembled an exploded mop, and the rings beneath her eyes made her look like Vandy's next-of-kin.

By comparison, Cass's wind-riffled ruggedness lent him a mouth-watering, outdoorsy appeal that made her private parts twitch. His eyes were as stunning as polished sapphires set in a face that the sun had baked to honey-colored amber. His grin was a slash of pure mischief in his closely cropped beard. She wanted to smack him for his disgusting cheerfulness.

"I should have told the bellhop you smuggled a fleabag into the penthouse," she grumbled.

He pushed the cart into the room. "Is that any way to talk about a hero?"

Vandy had been busily scratching his ear beneath the quilt. Now he popped his head out from his goose-down igloo and licked his chops.

"I brought all your breakfast favorites," Cass said.

"If you think a plate of gingerbread can excuse you for—"

"I wasn't talking to you," he interrupted loftily. He raised the platter's sterling dome to reveal a smelly, dead trout, an apple wedge smeared with peanut butter, a saucer heaped with pumpkin guts, and a pile of shelled pecans. At the center of the tray was a crystal bowl brimming with water. "A feast fit for a king!"

Vandy wriggled enthusiastically and barked.

Sadie wrinkled her nose. She wondered if it was too late to shout for the bellhop to remove the stinking travesty—and Cass along with it.

"All right," she bit out. "You've had your fun. Now get out."

"What, no chit-chat? No foreplay?"

"I have a gun. Don't make me use it."

He chuckled, lowering the platter to the carpet. Vandy hopped off the bed—favoring his leg—and promptly made a mess of things, tracking peanut butter and pumpkin guts across the pile.

"Aw. Look how tidy the little tyke is," Cass crooned without a hint of irony. "He's washing his paws."

"That's not all that needs washing," Sadie groused. "Collie had better clean this slop up. That kid has a lot of nerve, picking my lock in the middle of the night and stealing my pillowcase for a bandage."

"Now Sadie, the boy only has two shirts. And you have four pillowcases."

"That's not the point!"

"Yeah? Then what is the point, detective? That a beardless pup sneaked inside your bedroom while you were sleeping? And if he can do it, Maestro can?"

Humiliation burned its way up Sadie's neck. As loath as she was to admit it, Cass's argument was sound. A bad dream was no excuse for letting down her guard. However, she wasn't about to concede her failing. An army of inquisitors couldn't make her give Cass that pleasure!

"Oh, I get it," she said snidely. "I'm supposed to fear Maestro will murder me in my sleep. Well, your plan isn't working, Rutter. You've used up all your free sex tokens for my bed."

"Aw, don't be that way. We're on the same team now. I talked with your field boss."

"You did what?!"

"I convinced him how much he needs me. Contessas can't snoop around the Underground, after all."

Sadie quailed to think of Cass exposing himself to a bloodhound like Mace. There was a saying in the Agency. 'Don't piss off Mace Ryker. He's got a long memory and an even longer arm.'

"My God, do you have a death wish? After you slandered him all over Galveston, word got back to Chicago. He was called to headquarters for a drubbing. Sledgehammer doesn't forgive—"

"You mean Mace?"

Sadie blinked, momentarily derailed from her tirade. Dammit! Did I just blow Mace's cover?

Cass smiled cherubically. "Rangers know how to investigate with telegrams too, sweets."

"Don't call me that!"

"Sorry, sugar."

Sadie's chest heaved. This was bad. This was really bad...

"If this mission goes south because of something Mace can pin on you—"

Cass snorted. "No tin-star has ever pinned anything on me."

"That's because you never tangled with Pinkertons! You have no idea what you're up against. God help you if you squeal, because if harm should come to Mace—"

"Whoa. Slow down. You think Mace is your friend? I got news for you, sweetheart. Mace sold you out. He tried to make me believe you fingered me as Daredevil. Then he went and admitted he wants you out of the agency."

Sadie ground her teeth. She didn't doubt the last part of Cass's story. Mace had never minced words in his reports about her "unsuitability" for field work. As proof that she couldn't keep a cover, he'd blamed her for the fire that had razed the Satin Siren, during their investigation of a corrupt Texas senator.

"If Mace had his way, all Pinkies would have their badges revoked," she said grimly. "He thinks women are liabilities in the field."

"And Minx proved him right."

"Don't you dare presume that! Especially about me!"

Cass raised his palms in conciliation. "All right, Tiger. Sheath your claws. Let's take a deep breath and start over. This conversation clearly got off on the wrong foot."

Stooping, he rummaged under the cart's linen drape. Clattering and clanging ensued. A few moments later, he finally emerged with another covered plate.

"Do you know how hard it is to find blueberries in this town?"

"It's snowing," she said uncharitably. "What did you expect?"

"Well, you can't have blueberry pie without blueberries. I think there's a law about that somewhere. Even in Colorado." With a grin, he swept off the plate's sterling dome. "Tah-dah!"

She looked suspiciously at a tin heaped at least six inches high with mounds of whipping cream. "I don't see any blueberries."

"That's 'cause you're looking in the wrong place." Thrusting a finger into the dessert, he shoveled cream into his mouth and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "To find the little rascals, you're gonna have to undress me."

If she hadn't been so hurt—and angry—she might have been amused by his game. Their long history of "whipping cream wars" had begun in Dodge, when she'd been suffering one of her perennial diets to fit into a slinky, fishtail stage costume. He'd brought her a lavish dessert; she'd thrown it at his head; and they'd spent the next half hour scraping goo off the wall and smearing it on each other's private parts.

She sighed at the memory. "You'd better leave."

"That doesn't sound better for anybody."

"Don't push your luck, smartass. I woke with a very itchy trigger finger."

He tsked. "Sounds like drastic methods of persuasion are required. Fortunately, I have just the thing."

He stooped again. More clanging and clanking echoed in the mysterious depths of the serving trolley. Finally, he emerged from the linen tent with a rectangular black box. Careful not to disturb the turquoise bow that partially obscured the lid, he set the present next to the pie.

She hiked her chin. "And what's that supposed to be? A guilt gift?"

He smiled pleasantly and ignored the bait. "A music box. To replace the one I borrowed."

Borrowed, my ass.

"Take it back." She folded her arms across her chest. "I don't want it."

"Then maybe you could send it to Minx's folks. The original box belonged to her, right?"

Sadie was secretly impressed by his deduction. By the time she'd arrived in Denver, Minx's personal belongings had been packed by Brodie, who'd catalogued every item in painstaking detail, right down to the missing glove that Tabor had eventually found in his wall safe. The only item Brodie hadn't been able to match against Minx's expense reports had been a black music box with a striking, enamel peacock. Mace had given the novelty to Sadie with the instructions, "Find out where this came from."

Her best guess had been the Sears & Roebuck catalogue. But Sadie knew better than to report such an obvious conclusion. Mace wanted her to dig into the box's significance, and he wouldn't settle for a hunch. Facts were the only things Mace cared about.

'So why would Minx buy herself a music box?' Sadie mused privately. While Pinkies were on assignment, they were under orders not to introduce into their lodgings any item that might broadcast personal preferences, which could be used against them.

As if guessing her thoughts, Cass said, "A fence told me Maestro favors musical novelties. He's supposed to be interested in one of the Italian humidors that Rothschild's is auctioning."

Sadie's eyes narrowed in speculation. "Minx asked questions about Maestro around the opera house. She was fraternizing with a violinist. Maybe she was on to something."

"Well, you can't ask questions around the opera house. Not with those golden eyes and that fake Italian accent. Dolce LaRocca will expose you as a fraud."

"I'm perfectly aware of that," she snapped.

"Good thing I have a plan, huh?"

"You have a plan?"

"Yep." Cass was grinning from ear to ear.

"Do I want to hear this plan?"

"Probably not."

"Is Daredevil involved?"

"Like I said." Cass's wink was roguish. "You're better off not knowing. That way, you won't have to lie to that big-knuckled gorilla you work for."

She exhaled in exasperation. "Detective work isn't a game, Cass. Real people in this case have lost their property and their lives. Maestro needs to be stopped."

"That's what I aim to do. Stop Maestro."

"How?"

"You'll have to trust me."

"Trust you? After the stunt you pulled?"

"Okay. Bad choice of words. But—"

"Don't try to placate me!"

"Have it your way. Would you rather I hogtie you? Or kiss you into submission?"

She was seriously tempted to bean him with the pie lid. "If you try either of those tactics, Rutter, your new nickname will be Eunuch Bill."

He laughed.

"You think that's funny?"

"Look. I get it, Sadie. You're still pissed at me, but—"

"No, buts! What you did was cruel and childish. More than that, it was unconscionable! Dante Goddard would never treat a woman that way. Even Mace wouldn't treat a woman that way! And you know why? Because Dante and Mace are gentlemen! You're little better than a rutting hooligan!"

A dark stain crept up Cass's neck.

"In case you're forgetting," he retorted, "Doctor La-Di-Da didn't run into the alley to take a bullet for you last night. And neither did Agent Knuckle-Dragger. I was the one who had your back at Mattie's place."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Did my damsel-in-distress routine interrupt your orgy?"

"No," he bit out in gravelly tones, "I was looking for Minx's killer, the same as you."

"Do you really expect me to believe that? To believe anything you say? You betrayed me with a Judas Kiss!"

Her voice broke. To her utter mortification, a tear slipped past her lashes.

He swallowed hard.

"Sadie." He looked considerably paler now. "You have to understand. I've been crazy worried about you! No lawman worth his salt would expect a woman to act as bait in a murder investigation. Pinkerton put you in real danger! When you wouldn't listen to reason, I had to do something to make you see sense—"

"You succeeded," she interrupted bitterly. "You opened my eyes. Now get out."

She turned away. She couldn't bear to look at him. Against all her warnings, all her counseling, her heart had lowered its defenses. It had dared to trust him in a way it had never trusted a man before. For that immeasurable act of bravery, her heart had been crushed—not once. Not twice. But three times.

Cass had left her as an adolescent in Texas, and again, at the age of 21 in Kansas. Still, the pain she'd suffered those times had been possible to rationalize, mostly. He'd been running from the law. She'd been indentured to white slavers. He couldn't afford to buy her brothel contract, and if he had helped her escape, the greatest kindness the bounty hunters would have dealt him was a swift death.

But in Denver? When he'd planted that Judas Kiss? He'd jeopardized an aging whore's last hope of keeping a roof over her head. He never planned to marry her; they both knew that. Otherwise, he wouldn't have accepted a Ranger commission. Cass could offer her nothing but excuses and farewells. He didn't have any right to tell her how to earn a living!

"I can't forgive what you did, Cass."

A moment passed. An eternal, aching moment filled with a deafening silence.

"Ever?"

She didn't trust herself to answer. She heard the creak of leather chaps. She smelled the spice of clove tobacco and his favorite sandalwood soap. He stepped close behind her. The heat of his palm hovered over her shoulder, hesitating. Waiting for some sign of capitulation, perhaps? She squeezed her eyes closed. When his skin finally connected with hers, she winced.

"Please go," she whispered hoarsely.

Vandy whined. The sound was plaintive and worried as he pressed against her shins.

At long last, Cass obliged. Her bedroom door swung closed with a lonely, hollow click.