Free Devil in Texas (Lady Law & The Gunslinger Series, Book 1) by Adrienne deWolfe Page B

state's problem with fence-cutting gunnysackers.
    The state's other problem was a covert organization of vigilante grangers, who'd given honest, hard-working sodbusters a bad name. The Southern Farmers Alliance had denounced the guerilla tactics of the anonymous radicals, who festered in their ranks and lynched suspected gunnysackers. But a proclamation from a lobbyist group wasn't going to stop the murderers from attending the convention.
    Or assassinating Baron.
    "Lampasas is such a barbaric place," Poppy said, as if guessing Cass's thoughts. She shuddered. "I can't wait for this convention to be over. Sid Wright is worsethanuseless. Yesterday, I approached him with my private concerns about that floating poker game at Aquacia Bathhouse. Contrary to what all the sodbusters think, their wives are perfectly aware that their husbands are sneaking out of the convention to lose their shirts. But when I asked Wright to disband the game, he told me his hands are tied! Can you imagine? Assassins are running amuck, and Wright claims he can't send deputies two miles down the road to arrest them!"
    Cass cleared his throat. Baron, himself, had staked that poker game as part of his strategy to undermine Sterne's popularity with voters. Apparently, Wright had been too much of a gentleman to acquaint Poppy with the truth.
    "The bathhouse is located outside of town," Cass reminded her politely. "Sid's jurisdiction is limited to Lampasas."
    "What a lot of rubbish. A crime is a crime. Who cares if a sheriff, a marshal, or a Ranger makes the arrest? It's a lawman's sworn duty to protect decent folks from outlaws!"
    "Well... it is true lawmen need a little help now and then. That's why Baron hired me and Collie."
    "Oh, Cass. Don't you see? My husband hired private security to protect us from that overbearing tyrant, Rexford Sterne . You're the only gunfighter in this town with the nerve— and the skill—to stand up to his badge-wearing bullies."
    Cass averted his eyes. As much as he wanted to think that Sterne was an unholy bastard, he wanted to cling even more to his ideal that Rangers were noble. All his life, Cass had wanted to be someone whom other men respected. The kind of person whom women loved and little kiddies admired. He knew he could never go back and fix the mistake he'd made at the age of 13, when he'd gone vigilante, drawing too fast and plugging Abel Ainsworth before the Ku Klux Klansman could turn all the way around to face his doom. That split second of adolescent rage, of wanting to avenge Cousin Bobby's brutal murder, had forced Cass to spend his life running from the law, rather than enforcing it.
    Still, in his heart, he tried to be worthy of Rangerhood: to fight for right. To protect the innocent. To defend the weak. That's what being a Ranger meant to him.
    "You needn't worry about Baron, ma'am," Cass said gruffly. "Tito knows how to handle ruffians. He'll look after Baron when I'm off duty. Besides, most chuckleheads who strap on guns do it for show. They're slow to draw."
    "I suspect that's how Marshal Wright got his job," Poppy said disdainfully. "Frankly, I don't think that man would recognize a crime unless he stumbled over a corpse!"
    Slowing her steps, she peered into the milliner's window, with its tuxedo-wearing scarecrow and cheerful jack-o-lanterns. Each pumpkin was topped with a witch's hat that sported multi-patterned orange bows. Poppy worried her bottom lip as she stared at the display—or perhaps at the wall clock.
    "Cass, you were good to me once, when I needed a friend." She turned to face him again, her expression troubled. "I haven't forgotten how you tried to comfort me that day in the calving barn."
    Uh-oh. Cass's insides squirmed. He hadn't been expecting her to revisit that topic.
    "You were only 17," she murmured. "Remember?"
    Yeah, he remembered, all right. He'd found Poppy crying her eyes out after her second miscarriage and trying to slit her wrists with a whittling knife.
    "That kind of