Seduced by an Angel (Velvet Lies, Book 3) by Adrienne deWolfe

Author:Adrienne deWolfe [deWolfe, Adrienne]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: ePublishing Works!
Published: 2013-08-27T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

Thunder rumbled a mile or two away as Billy "Cass" Cassidy crouched upwind from the bay mare and the roan gelding. The two horses were tethered to a rotting, cedar fence that circled a hillbilly shack on Blue Thunder Mountain.

The pinewood shanty leaned downhill into a kennel run, which in turn stretched toward a 25-yard wide, circular dirt hole. Along the perimeter of that pit, chicken wire had been strung across coon-sized dugouts. This animal-baiting trap was surrounded by stumps and logs, reminiscent of a crude amphitheater with seats.

Cass narrowed his sniper's eyes at a cracked, half-hinged sign that was spinning like a weather vane from its lone chain. The broken plank proclaimed in a white-washed scrawl, "Gunther's Taxidermy—Is there Life after Death? Trespass and Find Out."

At least, that was his interpretation of the abysmally spelled message. Cass's mama had seen to his book-learning, God rest her soul. He'd never put much stock in reading, writing and arithmetic back in Pilot Grove, where bullets had been the only real form of currency.

But Lynx had taught him how to play Poker, and Poker, Cass had quickly discovered, required counting and reading skills, especially when some shady casino owner was shoving an inflated I.O.U. under your nose for a signature.

Tucking his long, sun-bleached hair behind his ears, Cass strained to hear the argument of the two roughriders who stood beneath the rustic, pinewood arch that held that spinning sign. He could tell the men were arguing, because the younger one—some no-account hillbilly with stringy blond hair and a patch of peach fuzz on his chin—had gotten all red and blotchy in the face.

The hillbilly's hands were gesturing in a high state of agitation, but he held them too high above his holster for Cass to think that the second man, Neville "Thorn" Taggart, was in danger of getting plugged.

Which was too damned bad, as far as Cass was concerned.

Taggart was a vicious, black-hearted, soul-rotted weasel—and that was putting it kindly. On the outside, he looked like a middle-aged scarecrow with thinning gray hair, beady black eyes, and drooping mustachios. On his shoulder, he carried a chip against Cass that was bigger than the Grand Canyon. And all because of a little limp.

Hell, if Cass had had his druthers, Taggart would be pushing up daisies right now, just like Abel Ainsworth was. Cass had felt no qualms about gunning down Ainsworth 11 years ago, after the bastard had bashed in Bobby's head.

In truth, if Cass had had that day to live over, he would have shot Ainsworth four or five times in the knees, and in a couple of other joints, too, to make him suffer. He'd let that bastard get off way too easy with one clean shot through the brain.

Ainsworth and Taggart. Cass shook his head. Those old boys are weasel kin.

But maybe, he mused, just maybe, Taggart is worse.

Ol' Thorn-in-the-Britches (as Lynx had dubbed Taggart) liked to call himself a bounty hunter, but in reality, Taggart was a murdering fiend.

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