Chapter 21

Sadie jolted awake in her chair, her Smith & Wesson aimed at the penthouse door. Someone was pounding on it. The whole wall shook. Even the crystal teardrops, dangling from the sconces, were swaying.

She scrubbed a hand over her face. She figured the caller couldn't be Goddard or a minion from his secret army. Any of Goddard's puppets would have tried to lie their way into the penthouse, not break down her door.

Dragging her fingers through her hair, she made a cursory attempt to look presentable, pinching her cheeks and hiding her .32 beneath the sleeve of her bolero jacket.

"Coming! Coming," she muttered, appalled when she glanced at the mantel. The clock read 3:35—in the afternoon!

Somehow, she'd lost three hours off her day. She'd only intended to rest her eyes after Pryce had escorted her back from the Grand Central Hotel. She'd ridden there for a powwow with Wilma, Rex, and Mace about Wyntir's journal. Mace seemed to think they had grounds for a search warrant. Arranging for that warrant had been Rex's job.

Not trusting Mace to be sensitive to Wyntir's innocence—or her grief—Sadie had asked Wilma to accompany Mace and Rex to Greyfell Manor. In the meantime, Sadie was keeping up her contessa charade, in case the search proved fruitless.

Eager to know if her colleagues had unearthed the "secret laboratory" that Wyntir had described, Sadie cracked open the penthouse door.

She'd been expecting Mace. Instead, she found Collie.

"Shh!" she hissed, grabbing the boy's deerskin sleeve and dragging him over the threshold. "I'm being watched!"

Vandy wriggled his way through the maze of skirts and trouser legs, just barely clearing the threshold before the door swung closed.

"Hey! Watch the tail!" Collie snapped.

"Sorry."

Vandy didn't seem to mind her negligence. Full of forgiveness, he flopped on her shoes, kicked up her skirts, and generally made a nuisance of himself. She had to tug her petticoats from the playful coon's teeth.

"Did you find Cass?" she asked hopefully.

Cass had been missing for hours, and he hadn't found a way to communicate with her. Thanks to Dolce's accusations, every law enforcement agency in town was looking for him.

Collie wanted to find Cass too. The difference was, Collie didn't want Cass arrested. She'd had the devil of a time convincing the boy that she was on his side, mainly because Mace had ordered his most loyal men to watch her around the clock. In fact, he'd replaced the elevator operator with a Pinkerton.

Now Collie's flinty, streetwise glare darted beneath her bed, the chaise lounge, the draperies—anywhere a grown man might hide. Sadie wasn't sure whether he was hunting for Cass or Pinkertons.

Finally, a shadow passed over the boy's sun-gilded brow.

"I was hoping Cass sneaked in here," he admitted.

Damn!

Sadie struggled to ignore her frisson of dread. "Well, he knows he's being hunted. He knows they're watching me and you. He's a coyote. He knows where to hole up. Besides, he hasn't even been missing for 24 hours. I wouldn't worry about him, if I were you. I'm not."

"How the hell are you a Pinkerton? You can't lie worth crap."

She sighed. So much for playing Big Sister and trying to ease the boy's mind.

"Did you try Mattie's? The Bust-a-Gut? The Bonanza—"

Collie was nodding impatiently. "I tried every brothel on Holladay Street and every saloon in the Highlands. I even went to Porfi's. Nobody knows where he is."

"He probably convinced some bawd to cover for him."

"You mean he told her to humbug a kid with a coon?" Collie shook his head. "No way. He would have told her to let me in."

"But if he was worried you'd been followed—"

"I know how to ditch the law," he snapped. "I do it better than he does."

"In the wild? Maybe. In an unfamiliar city? Not so much."

They locked stares. Collie didn't like to be told he was wrong.

"Look," she said, struggling with her own notoriously short temper. "All I'm saying is, he's canny. That's why no jail can hold him. Besides, Rex would have sent word if Cass was arrested."

"Arrest ain't what I'm worried about," Collie said darkly.

Sadie quailed to see her worst fears mirrored in that troubled, pewter stare.

Suddenly, a polite rap shook the door.

Collie's Colt was in his fist faster than she could blink, which secretly impressed her. His quickdraw had come a long way since Cass had started training him last year. The boy jerked his head to the side, ordering her out of the line of fire. Vandy growled softly.

"Donna?" a muffled young tenor queried in Italian. "Sono io, il valletto di Don Nico."

Sadie hiked an eyebrow. Mace had sent an agent to play his valet? The boy's accent wasn't half bad.

She waved Collie out of sight, tossing him a warning look for good measure. He'd eased his thumb off the gun hammer, but he'd refused to holster the Colt.

Cass has been training him, all right.

"Buon pomeriggio," she greeted, adopting a regal mien as she opened the door.

Brodie inclined his head. "Si, donna."

Sadie hid her amusement. So much for the junior agent's Italian. Apparently, Brodie had memorized just enough vocabulary to get him in the penthouse, and 'good afternoon' hadn't been on the list.

"I came as fast as I could," he confided as she closed the door behind him.

Collie's narrowed gaze swept over Brodie's red coat, brass buttons, and white gloves. "Bellhops are supposed to wear blue around here."

Brodie straightened his spectacles. "You are Collier MacAffee," he said in some surprise. "Ranger Cassidy's friend."

"I know who I am. Who the hell are you?"

A flush rolled up Brodie's neck. "That's not important. What's important is Ranger Cassidy sent me." He turned his shoulder on the boy and locked stares with Sadie. "He wants you to meet him alone. St. John's Cathedral. At dusk in the churchyard."

Collie's thumb strayed back to his gun hammer. "Prove it."

Brodie's Adam's apple bobbed a couple of times. He looked to Sadie for help.

"Put away the gun, Collie." She felt like the weight of the world had lifted off her shoulders now that she knew Cass was alive. "I trust this messenger."

"Yeah? Well, I don't trust anyone associated with Ryker."

The boy had a point. But she wasn't going to let Brodie know she felt the same way.

"Then you mustn't trust me," she said impatiently.

"You're female. That's different." Collie's flinty gaze drilled into Brodie. "And dressin' like a girl don't count."

Brodie huffed, straightening his spine. "I'll have you know, Ranger Cassidy asked me to impersonate a valet to corroborate his Don Dominar alias!"

"Don Dom?" Collie cocked his head. A grudging acceptance vied with the suspicion on his face. "You dressed as a bootlicker for Cass?"

"Well, you wouldn't," Brodie said indignantly.

"Damned straight. You look like a crawfish. After a boil."

Sadie cleared her throat to hide her amusement. "If you boys are done cuss-fighting, I'll need a little help sneaking past Pryce."

"He ain't your only problem," Collie said grimly, holstering his Colt. "The fella in the elevator's got shoes that stink like rubber too."

So Collie noticed Pinkertons wear soft soles to tail suspects? That boy's going to make one canny tin-star someday.

"I have an idea," Brodie volunteered.

Sadie and Collie exchanged dubious looks.

"Mr. MacAffee will need to loan you his hat, coat, and cartridge belt, of course," Brodie said eagerly. "Oh. And his coon."

Collie blinked. "My coon?"

"Well, Miss Sadie can't very well impersonate you without Vandy."

A comical look of horror spread across Collie's face. Sadie coughed into her fist.

"What are you laughing at?" the boy growled.

She winked at Brodie. "Well, there is an alternative solution," she said in lilting tones. "I could loan Collie my bustle, corset, and lip paint—"

Collie was already stripping off his coat and scowling like a gargoyle. "When you find Snake Bait in that churchyard, tell him I'm gonna whup his ass. Oh, and make sure Vandy bites him."

By the time Sadie had finished dressing like a boy, the clock read 3:50. She spent another 10 minutes learning how to mimic a certain corn-cracker's gangly stroll, much to Collie's humiliation. By the time the boys had loaded Vandie into a knapsack and strapped the coon to her back, the clock read 4:05.

"Good God," she huffed, hefting her furry stowaway higher on her shoulders. "How many pecan trees have you eaten, Tubby?"

"For your information," Collie retorted, "Vandy doesn't have to volunteer for this mission. He could leave you to rot under your tiara, princess."

"That's contessa, smartass. And all I'm saying is, I don't think you should be giving him that biscuit—"

"You want him wiggling like a fish and popping out on your head?"

Sadie shot Brodie a withering look. The junior agent was snickering.

"I didn't think so," Collie said loftily.

Vandy reached eager forepaws for the treat. Sadie winced at the amplified sound of coon teeth, crunching in her ear.

"Now don't forget to let him pee before you ride back. And cinch that belt real tight so he doesn't tip out. And remember to—"

"Yes, Mother," she interrupted, tossing the boy an exasperated look.

She cracked open the door and peeked into the hall. She could see Pryce sitting on a stool by the stairwell. He was reading a newspaper. The masthead of the Rocky was illuminated by slanting shafts of afternoon.

She squared her shoulders.

Brodie nodded in encouragement. Collie folded his arms across his chest. When the door swung closed, he looked worried. She had no illusions about whom.

The good news is, sneaking past Pryce will be the most harrowing part of this journey, she consoled herself.

Even so, her heart wouldn't stop hammering her ribs. She thought for certain the agent would hear it.

She gulped a bolstering breath.

All right, Moocher, it's show time. Do me proud.

With Vandy's hot little breaths blowing in her ear, Sadie sauntered toward her Pinkerton bodyguard. She wasn't able to stop Collie's spurs from jingling—like he'd shown her—but she steeled her expression against a show of frustration. She kept Brodie's advice firmly in mind:

"Pryce has no reason to suspect the switch, so don't give him one. Just walk. Keep your head down. If you have to, grunt like you hate the world."

"Hey!" Collie had protested.

Somehow, she managed not to smirk at the memory.

Now she was five feet from the agent. She kept her chin tucked in Collie's bandanna and the boy's chocolate-brown Stetson pulled low over her tell-tale eyes.

Fortunately, the sun was dipping in the sky, and the stairwell was full of shadows. When Pryce glanced up, she angled her face away from the window and toyed with Vandy's paw. She could almost feel the agent's probing stare as it roamed from her muley boots, to her fringed deerskin jacket, to her furry sidekick, who was leaving a trail of crumbs in her wake—not to mention dropping them down her collar.

"Hold."

She nearly strangled on her breath.

"You got a smoke?" Pryce demanded.

Fighting down panic, she shook her head.

The agent looked annoyed. "This stairwell's colder than a witch's tit. What's the time?"

She shrugged and grunted, trying to look surly and sound insolent—just like Collie would.

Pryce scowled. Her scalp prickled. She thought he'd taken offense.

"Becker's late, I'll warrant. Probably losing his shirt at craps," he grumbled, shaking open his paper again. Pryce waved her forward and buried his nose in the boxing pages.

The ruse worked!

She fled. By the time she reached the hitching post and heaved her 50-pound knapsack onto Collie's horse, the clock on the Windsor's tower read 4:18. She needed to hurry if she wanted to reach the cathedral before sunset.

The snow had stopped, but the wind was brisk. Rhubarb's canter made it even brisker, causing air gusts to sting her cheeks. She was grateful for Vandy's warmth, pressed against her spine. He didn't mind the chill. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the way the wind riffled his fur and caused little puffs of steam to rise from his snout. He even swatted at his breaths, playful to the core. She smiled to hear him snuffling at scents she could only imagine.

Eventually, he hooked both paws around her neck and rested his chin on her shoulder, the way a toddler might. His childlike trust made her heart sigh. She hadn't anticipated this sneak-attack of female yearning. Her brain promptly turned to mush, envisioning a dimpled, tow-headed urchin with Cass's mischievous blue eyes on her back.

Somehow, she managed to drag her attention to the road once more. St. John's Cathedral loomed around the bend. Its spire rose like a silver flame against the western backdrop of sun-drenched mountains. The peaks were ablaze with orange fire. She wouldn't have minded taking a few moments to enjoy the view, but Rhubarb distracted her, tossing his head. He whinnied.

A distant, but friendly neigh answered the roan.

Pancake!

An overwhelming surge of relief made her eyes burn. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Cass was here. All the hours of worry had been for naught. He was safe, and he was on time. She suspected if she turned into the wind, she'd catch a whiff of cinnamon and cloves, and the aroma of his tobacco would lead her to him.

Planning to do just that, she dismounted, gathering Rhubarb's reins. But the minute she stepped beneath a stand of pine trees, Vandy started squirming like that fish Collie had warned her about.

"What on earth—"

Now Vandy was growling. Coon fangs were daunting at any distance, but when they were bared two inches from your throat, that was cause for serious alarm.

"All right, all right, I'll let you down!"

She lowered the knapsack to the snow. Wriggling out of his leather prison, Vandy barreled through the drifts like a chubby torpedo.

She blew out her breath. Either Cass had loaded his pockets with coon treats, or a female was busily spraying a tree. In either case, Sadie didn't know how the devil she was going to get Vandy stuffed inside that knapsack again.

I'll deal with that catastrophe later.

She tethered Rhubarb and wandered through the trees. The sun was sinking fast, and midnight-blue shadows were lengthening across the snow. The grounds were larger than she'd anticipated; she wasn't sure where to look for Cass. He wasn't smoking; at least, not that she could smell. The church was dark, and the yard appeared vacant. To her left loomed the Episcopal rectory, to the right sprawled a graveyard. She couldn't spot fresh hoof prints. But then, Cass was dodging the law. He wouldn't have left an obvious trail.

The sudden clanging of church bells startled her. They pealed at a thunderous pitch—not once, as they should have done to mark half past the hour. They rang five times. Eight times. Twelve times.

A curse and a whimper were distinct between claps.

"Cass!" she called again.

Lord. Enough of the bells already. She couldn't believe they were still tolling. The timing mechanism must have been faulty in the clock tower.

She spied movement. A dark-haired man in a black duster was stumbling into the graveyard with his hands over his ears. He fell to his knees.

Cass?

Shouting was futile. She hurried after him, leaving her tree cover behind. He struggled to his feet. She lost sight of him as he ducked behind a monument.

Suddenly, the clamor stopped. The utter silence of the boneyard was eerie. Every bird—and even the wind—seemed to be reeling in the aftershock. Her own ears throbbed as she crossed beneath the vaulted, wrought-iron gateway that marked the cemetery's entrance.

"Cass!"

Her voice pinged off the headstones, the cathedral, the trees. He didn't answer. He didn't show himself.

Halting, she tugged Collie's coat collar higher. She was getting chills. She supposed that was normal. Dusk was leeching what feeble warmth the sun had pumped into the yard. Maybe Cass didn't recognize her. She shoved back her hat, letting her hair tumble past her shoulders.

"It's me! Sadie!"

Yew trees soughed; elms creaked and moaned. Above the mournful sounds, she could just barely discern the tinny strains of mechanical music. The tune was an old soldier's lament. Her memory supplied the lyrics:

"Bury me alone at sundown,

When the sky's last lingering rays,

Flee before the coming darkness,

Thus to end my wicked days."

A suspicion—a terrible, horrifying suspicion—sneaked inside her brain.

Twigs snapped.

She spun around.

It was too late to trigger her .32. All she could do was quail before her worst nightmare:

Cass had emerged from a hedgerow. His expression was blank. His eyes were cold. And his gun was pointed at her heart.