She was determined to be the boss of her life in a time when
women weren't allowed to be the boss of much of anything. He
was running from the pain in his past, and ran right into her.
women weren't allowed to be the boss of much of anything. He
was running from the pain in his past, and ran right into her.
Excerpt from: Indian Beads & Sliver Spurs
Copyright by Charlotte Dillon. All rights reserved.
Wyoming Territory, 1870
Cassandra Lewis stopped her horse at the edge of town when the clamorous noise of men celebrating a
Saturday night reached her. Cheyenne, Wyoming hadn't slowly grown into a township. It had burst into
life fighting and cursing.
A few shots rang out somewhere ahead. The knot in the pit of her stomach doubled in size. Instead of
turning back, she urged her mount forward. Dressed like any other cowhand, with her coat collar turned
up, her hat pulled low, and her hair hid under it, she figured she looked male enough to go unnoticed.
As Cassandra rode down Sixteenth Street she found herself second-guessing her decision to try and find
Chase on her own. Jake, the ranch's foreman, would have ridden with her, but why should he lose part
of a night's sleep because of her foolish kid brother? Chase was her responsibility.
She let her horse pick its way along the muddy streets in front of the busy saloons. Her gaze scanned
from the crowded hitching rails on one side of the street to the other, searching for the buckskin gelding
that would give away Chase's location.
Three horses galloped by, hooves slinging mud. The men on their backs whooped with drunken glee and
fired shots into the air. As they passed, an icy splatter of dark muck landed across the side of
Cassandra's face. She wiped it off with her gloved hand, shivering from a fresh chill that started at her
toes and worked its way up.
Only a couple of moments later she spotted her bother's buckskin in front of the Horseshoe Saloon. No
saloon was a safe place, but the Horseshoe had a particularly nasty reputation.
The high-pitched music of a piano accompanied by the clinging of glasses and the deep voices of men
filled the cold night air as she dismounted and stepped onto the plank boardwalk. An occasional female
laugh floated out, undoubtedly from one of the women who worked inside.
Cassandra took a steadying breath and then stepped inside. A haze of cigar smoke hung in the
liquor-scented air of the large saloon. Several men stood belly up to the long mahogany bar. A huge
gilded mirror covered the wall behind the bar.
The crowded saloon offered a varied assortment of men: hunters, gamblers, gunmen, ranch hands, as well
as ranch owners. Each man seemed to have chosen his own favorite sin and was deep into enjoying it.
As she moved further into the room, one of the women who worked in the saloon, no one Cassandra
knew, headed toward her with two full mugs of beer in each hand. Cassandra stepped out of the way and
accidentally bumped into one of the men at the bar. He was tall enough that she ended up staring at his
shoulder instead of his face.
Don't look up, she told herself, step back and move on.
Even as the sensible thought played through her mind, she lifted her gaze and found herself staring into
a dark handsome face and a pair of even darker eyes. The stranger was part Indian, his high cheekbones
and sharp features gave away that. His hair was midnight black and long enough that it fell over his
shoulders.
At first there was no expression on the man's face. Then she saw a flash of something, and knew he had
figured out her gender.
Cassandra could actually hear the pounding of her heart as the seconds ticked by like hours. Within her
an odd scramble of emotions rushed forward. She waited tensely to see if the stranger would give her
away.
Her gaze begged him not to. Her lips mouthed the word please. The noise that pulsated around them
seemed to fade away until it became a distant rumble. Through all those long seconds he stared at her so
intently she almost forgot what she was asking of him.
A slight grin touched the stranger's lips. With a wink he said, "You'd best watch where those feet take
you." Without another word, he turned to the bar and picked up the shot glass in front of him.
When that knowing gaze released Cassandra, the sounds of the saloon crashed back in. Time accelerated
to its normal pace and her heart moved back into her chest. With a sigh of relief she inhaled to refill
lungs that burned for the lack of air.
Accepting the knowledge that she was safe for the moment, she turned back to her goal. After dodging
another woman carrying drinks, Cassandra made her way toward the gambling tables. She would place
odds ten to one she would find Chase there. The remaining odd was the off chance that he might be in a
room upstairs. She tried not to think of the results that could bring about.
Then she spotted him. He stood beside one of the tables, watching a card game being played by four
rough-looking men. After a second of relief, she got angry again. The things he put her through! One of
these days that boy was going to get them both killed. He was only fifteen, but thanks to his build and
height he could pass for a grown man. Only the boyish features of his face gave away a hint as to how few
years he had under his belt.
If she died a young woman it would be his fault, because if worry could kill a person she would drop dead
before her brother turned eighteen. This was the fourth time he had slipped off during the night and
hightailed it into Cheyenne--or at least the fourth that she knew about.
With her anger rekindled, Cassandra started toward her tormentor. She made it to his side and had a
tight hold on his arm before he could get away.
He looked shocked to see her. "I was about to head for home, Sis." No sooner had he said the word sis,
then he seemed to realize the mistake.
All four men at the table looked up, forgetting their card game. The big hairy man closest to them stood,
and without warning, snatched the hat off of Cassandra's head. A few long strands of red hair fell around
her face, having worked their way free from their thick bun. She knew her luck had run out.
The man tossed her hat onto the table. "Would you looky here. Seems we got us a little lady what likes
to dress like a man," he chuckled. "Hell, maybe we should offer her some whiskey and let her play a hand
of cards whilst she's here," he said loudly. His friends, as well as some of the other men nearby, replied
with a hearty roar of laughter.
Cassandra reached across the table for her hat. She forced a calm smile to her lips. "I hate to turn down
the offer, gentleman, but I'm afraid I don't have time for the drink or the game tonight. Maybe next time."
She tugged on Chase's arm and they started to walk away.
One of the other men stood and blocked her path. The palms of her hands grew clammy inside her
gloves. A trapdoor fell open in the pit of her stomach.
"It sure ain't nice of you to turn down old Dexter's kind offer like that, ma'am," the man drawled with a
big grin.
Chase stepped in front of her. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back, but he jerked out of her
grasp. Little brother or not, he weighed a good fifty pounds more than her and stood at least four inches
taller. But he was only fifteen, a boy, her baby brother. She knew he had little chance against even one
of these men, much less four of them.
"We're not looking for any trouble, mister," Chase began, "it's just that we'd best be getting home." He
tried to walk around, but the man moved to the side, blocking what little of an escape path had been left.
"If you wasn't lookin' for trouble you should've stayed out of this saloon, sonny," the man replied.
Several men from nearby tables fled to the far side of the room. Others left the saloon completely. A
couple of chairs were knocked over in the rush but nobody delayed to right them. Most men in these
parts had seen more than one innocent bystander killed by a stray bullet.
Cassandra knew there was no talking her way out of this. These men had been waiting for a reason to
stir up trouble. Without drawing attention to it, she pulled her right glove off and slipped her hand into
the front of her coat, toward the Dragoon Colt revolver that hung in the gunbelt around her waist.
A hand grabbed her gun arm in a grip so tight she feared the small bones in her arm might snap. She let
out a gasp.
Chase spun around and took a swing at the big man called Dexter. Two men from the table leaped up
and grabbed Chase before his fist could hit anything more than stale air.
Dexter moved in front of Cassandra without letting go of her arm. "What you got inside that coat, little
lady?" He reached in and pulled the revolver out. "It looks like I was wrong. You ain't no lady. I never
did see a lady carry no Dragoon revolver strapped to her hip." With a grin that turned her blood cold, he
added, "I think you'd have put a hole through me if I'd given you the chance."
Cassandra matched his cold grin with her own. "Why don't you hand it back and we'll see?" She hadn't
given up all hope. She wasn't as unarmed as this man believed. She had been taught better than to walk
around without a hideout pistol. She carried a Deringer in her vest pocket that could shoot a man as
dead as her larger weapon.
"You get your dirty paws off my sister!" Chase yelled as he tried to break free from the two big men who
held him. The rest of the saloon had gone still and quiet.
Dexter laughed. "You might as well calm down, boy. I don't have no ide' of letting this pretty little hell
cat go." He paused long enough to run the tip of his tongue over his lips like a hungry dog staring at a
plateful of beef. "Not 'til I've had myself a some fun." To prove his intent he trailed a callused finger
across her cheek. "Hell, maybe I'll have myself a lot of fun with 'er."
Derrick Forrest stood at the bar, his back to the struggle, but thanks to the mirror in front of him, he
could watch what was happening.
As soon as he had found himself staring down into that woman's beautiful green eyes he had known
there would be trouble. He had told himself to get out of this place, instinct warning that he would wind
up risking his fool neck for those green eyes if he stayed. For once he had given himself good advice. Too
bad he hadn't listened.
Being the end result of a white man and a Dakota woman, and having a past that too many people knew
about, Derrick didn't have to look for trouble--it looked for him. Which gave him more reason to stay out
of other people's fights.
He heard the boy yell at the man called Dexter. The man made a torrid reply and then ran his finger
across the woman's pale cheek.
Derrick picked up his shot glass and downed the rye whiskey in one swallow. He had come into
Cheyenne for a long night in the arms of a willing, well-paid female. Rescuing a woman with envy-green
eyes, which he had noticed while trying not to, didn't fit into his plans, but he had to do something.
"Damn it!" He slammed the empty glass down on the bar. Still watching the mirror he called out to the
men behind him. "How about letting the boy and his sister go? You've had your little bit of fun." The
saloon's customers on either side of him scattered away like fleas leaving a dying dog.
Dexter turned to face Derrick's back. "And what you gonna do if we ain't
through havin' our fun yet?"
Derrick unhooked his boot heel from over the brass rail at the bottom of the bar, tilted his hat back, and
turned. "Then you and your three friends won't be walking out of here...your worthless bodies will have
to be carried out." He moved forward some, his steps echoed in the strained silence, silence that seemed
to wait hungrily for what would come.
Derrick stood prepared, nerves tense but steady. He eased the left side of his long coat back, exposing
his revolver, worn backwards. Experience had taught him he could draw faster this way. When the time
came, if it came, his right hand would cross in front of his waist with lightning speed, draw and fire in one
smooth, deadly quick movement.
Dexter laughed, a smug, confident smile on his bearded face. "What good you reckon one revolver's
gonna do against the four of us? Even if you manage to drop one of us, the others will get you." He
shifted the big plug of tobacco in his jaw and spat on the floor. "Any way you wanna look at it, I ain't
gonna stand for no damn half-breed tellin' me what to do."
Cassandra was grateful for the stranger's help, but feared that help could cost the man his life. But then
it happened, the thing she had hoped for; Dexter turned his full attention toward the stranger. The other
three men, probably figuring she couldn't be a real threat, weren't paying her any mind. It left her with
the opening she needed.
In a flash she held her Deringer in hand. She placed the tip of the barrel against the back of Dexter's
neck, just above his coat collar. "Looks like you better count again, mister. The way I see it, it's two
against four, and I'll give you one guess where my first bullet's going?" she hissed, making each word
sound more like a promise than a threat.
"Best make that three to four," added the barkeeper as he raised his rifle over the bar and pointed it
toward Dexter.
Cassandra released a tense breath. One more weapon on her side meant Chase and she, and the
stranger, might get out of this mess in one piece.
Dexter seemed none too happy with having two guns held on him at one time. Keeping his hands in
plain sight, he yelled across the room, "This ain't none of your business, barkeep. What the hell you
riskin' a hole in your gut for?"
The barkeeper answered, "That lady behind you makes it my business. I owe her father a favor or two.
Besides, I reckon I'm doing you the biggest favor. Don't you know who you're facing, or you just got
yourself a death wish?"
The stranger smiled, but it didn't soften the look of hate on his face. "Name's Derrick...Derrick Forrest."
Dexter took a sudden step back, but froze again when Cassandra pushed her weapon harder against his
thick neck. What of the side of his face she could see through his shaggy beard and mustache paled as
he moved his big hands, easy like, further away from his sides. She had no idea who Derrick Forrest was,
but Dexter seemed to know.
"You two let go of the little lady's brother," Dexter said, glancing nervously toward his friends.
The two men released Chase. Cassandra reached around Dexter and picked up her Colt Dragoon from
the table. She kept both guns on Dexter as she moved to her brother's side. She didn't worry much
about the other three men, sure they wouldn't make a move without an order from Dexter. At his point,
he wasn't likely to try anything.
Chase had his revolver trained on the two men who had held him. Cassandra gave her brother a sideways
nod and together they backed to where the stranger she now knew as Derrick Forrest waited.
When they reached him, he moved in front of them protectively, his revolver still holstered. From the way
he worked the long fingers on his free hand opened and closed, Cassandra knew he was ready to change
that if one of the men in front of them did as much as twitch a nose hair.
"Lady, you and your brother get out of here."
Chase took a step back, but Cassandra didn't move. "We all go out together or we all stay," she insisted.
She might not have been able to see Derrick's face to judge his reaction to her words, but she noticed his
hand tighten into a fist for a second before he started working his fingers again.
"Have you lost your mind, lady? Now get out of here!"
The harsh tone of his voice might have run any other woman off, but not Cassandra. She didn't move an
inch. "No! Not without you," she countered with the closest match to his stern tone she could manage.
"You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for us, and I'm not about to walk out of here and leave you
holding my bag of rattle snakes."
He shook his head as if he couldn't believe she would dare to disagree with his orders.
When he gave no other reply, she added, "If you'd prefer, we could stand here all night and argue." She
hoped he didn't prefer. Things were going their way, but fate could deal a different ending if they hung
around.
"All right, damn it!" he finally gave in. "Start backing your way out slow and steady. I'm coming."
Cassandra Lewis stopped her horse at the edge of town when the clamorous noise of men celebrating a
Saturday night reached her. Cheyenne, Wyoming hadn't slowly grown into a township. It had burst into
life fighting and cursing.
A few shots rang out somewhere ahead. The knot in the pit of her stomach doubled in size. Instead of
turning back, she urged her mount forward. Dressed like any other cowhand, with her coat collar turned
up, her hat pulled low, and her hair hid under it, she figured she looked male enough to go unnoticed.
As Cassandra rode down Sixteenth Street she found herself second-guessing her decision to try and find
Chase on her own. Jake, the ranch's foreman, would have ridden with her, but why should he lose part
of a night's sleep because of her foolish kid brother? Chase was her responsibility.
She let her horse pick its way along the muddy streets in front of the busy saloons. Her gaze scanned
from the crowded hitching rails on one side of the street to the other, searching for the buckskin gelding
that would give away Chase's location.
Three horses galloped by, hooves slinging mud. The men on their backs whooped with drunken glee and
fired shots into the air. As they passed, an icy splatter of dark muck landed across the side of
Cassandra's face. She wiped it off with her gloved hand, shivering from a fresh chill that started at her
toes and worked its way up.
Only a couple of moments later she spotted her bother's buckskin in front of the Horseshoe Saloon. No
saloon was a safe place, but the Horseshoe had a particularly nasty reputation.
The high-pitched music of a piano accompanied by the clinging of glasses and the deep voices of men
filled the cold night air as she dismounted and stepped onto the plank boardwalk. An occasional female
laugh floated out, undoubtedly from one of the women who worked inside.
Cassandra took a steadying breath and then stepped inside. A haze of cigar smoke hung in the
liquor-scented air of the large saloon. Several men stood belly up to the long mahogany bar. A huge
gilded mirror covered the wall behind the bar.
The crowded saloon offered a varied assortment of men: hunters, gamblers, gunmen, ranch hands, as well
as ranch owners. Each man seemed to have chosen his own favorite sin and was deep into enjoying it.
As she moved further into the room, one of the women who worked in the saloon, no one Cassandra
knew, headed toward her with two full mugs of beer in each hand. Cassandra stepped out of the way and
accidentally bumped into one of the men at the bar. He was tall enough that she ended up staring at his
shoulder instead of his face.
Don't look up, she told herself, step back and move on.
Even as the sensible thought played through her mind, she lifted her gaze and found herself staring into
a dark handsome face and a pair of even darker eyes. The stranger was part Indian, his high cheekbones
and sharp features gave away that. His hair was midnight black and long enough that it fell over his
shoulders.
At first there was no expression on the man's face. Then she saw a flash of something, and knew he had
figured out her gender.
Cassandra could actually hear the pounding of her heart as the seconds ticked by like hours. Within her
an odd scramble of emotions rushed forward. She waited tensely to see if the stranger would give her
away.
Her gaze begged him not to. Her lips mouthed the word please. The noise that pulsated around them
seemed to fade away until it became a distant rumble. Through all those long seconds he stared at her so
intently she almost forgot what she was asking of him.
A slight grin touched the stranger's lips. With a wink he said, "You'd best watch where those feet take
you." Without another word, he turned to the bar and picked up the shot glass in front of him.
When that knowing gaze released Cassandra, the sounds of the saloon crashed back in. Time accelerated
to its normal pace and her heart moved back into her chest. With a sigh of relief she inhaled to refill
lungs that burned for the lack of air.
Accepting the knowledge that she was safe for the moment, she turned back to her goal. After dodging
another woman carrying drinks, Cassandra made her way toward the gambling tables. She would place
odds ten to one she would find Chase there. The remaining odd was the off chance that he might be in a
room upstairs. She tried not to think of the results that could bring about.
Then she spotted him. He stood beside one of the tables, watching a card game being played by four
rough-looking men. After a second of relief, she got angry again. The things he put her through! One of
these days that boy was going to get them both killed. He was only fifteen, but thanks to his build and
height he could pass for a grown man. Only the boyish features of his face gave away a hint as to how few
years he had under his belt.
If she died a young woman it would be his fault, because if worry could kill a person she would drop dead
before her brother turned eighteen. This was the fourth time he had slipped off during the night and
hightailed it into Cheyenne--or at least the fourth that she knew about.
With her anger rekindled, Cassandra started toward her tormentor. She made it to his side and had a
tight hold on his arm before he could get away.
He looked shocked to see her. "I was about to head for home, Sis." No sooner had he said the word sis,
then he seemed to realize the mistake.
All four men at the table looked up, forgetting their card game. The big hairy man closest to them stood,
and without warning, snatched the hat off of Cassandra's head. A few long strands of red hair fell around
her face, having worked their way free from their thick bun. She knew her luck had run out.
The man tossed her hat onto the table. "Would you looky here. Seems we got us a little lady what likes
to dress like a man," he chuckled. "Hell, maybe we should offer her some whiskey and let her play a hand
of cards whilst she's here," he said loudly. His friends, as well as some of the other men nearby, replied
with a hearty roar of laughter.
Cassandra reached across the table for her hat. She forced a calm smile to her lips. "I hate to turn down
the offer, gentleman, but I'm afraid I don't have time for the drink or the game tonight. Maybe next time."
She tugged on Chase's arm and they started to walk away.
One of the other men stood and blocked her path. The palms of her hands grew clammy inside her
gloves. A trapdoor fell open in the pit of her stomach.
"It sure ain't nice of you to turn down old Dexter's kind offer like that, ma'am," the man drawled with a
big grin.
Chase stepped in front of her. She grabbed his arm and tried to pull him back, but he jerked out of her
grasp. Little brother or not, he weighed a good fifty pounds more than her and stood at least four inches
taller. But he was only fifteen, a boy, her baby brother. She knew he had little chance against even one
of these men, much less four of them.
"We're not looking for any trouble, mister," Chase began, "it's just that we'd best be getting home." He
tried to walk around, but the man moved to the side, blocking what little of an escape path had been left.
"If you wasn't lookin' for trouble you should've stayed out of this saloon, sonny," the man replied.
Several men from nearby tables fled to the far side of the room. Others left the saloon completely. A
couple of chairs were knocked over in the rush but nobody delayed to right them. Most men in these
parts had seen more than one innocent bystander killed by a stray bullet.
Cassandra knew there was no talking her way out of this. These men had been waiting for a reason to
stir up trouble. Without drawing attention to it, she pulled her right glove off and slipped her hand into
the front of her coat, toward the Dragoon Colt revolver that hung in the gunbelt around her waist.
A hand grabbed her gun arm in a grip so tight she feared the small bones in her arm might snap. She let
out a gasp.
Chase spun around and took a swing at the big man called Dexter. Two men from the table leaped up
and grabbed Chase before his fist could hit anything more than stale air.
Dexter moved in front of Cassandra without letting go of her arm. "What you got inside that coat, little
lady?" He reached in and pulled the revolver out. "It looks like I was wrong. You ain't no lady. I never
did see a lady carry no Dragoon revolver strapped to her hip." With a grin that turned her blood cold, he
added, "I think you'd have put a hole through me if I'd given you the chance."
Cassandra matched his cold grin with her own. "Why don't you hand it back and we'll see?" She hadn't
given up all hope. She wasn't as unarmed as this man believed. She had been taught better than to walk
around without a hideout pistol. She carried a Deringer in her vest pocket that could shoot a man as
dead as her larger weapon.
"You get your dirty paws off my sister!" Chase yelled as he tried to break free from the two big men who
held him. The rest of the saloon had gone still and quiet.
Dexter laughed. "You might as well calm down, boy. I don't have no ide' of letting this pretty little hell
cat go." He paused long enough to run the tip of his tongue over his lips like a hungry dog staring at a
plateful of beef. "Not 'til I've had myself a some fun." To prove his intent he trailed a callused finger
across her cheek. "Hell, maybe I'll have myself a lot of fun with 'er."
Derrick Forrest stood at the bar, his back to the struggle, but thanks to the mirror in front of him, he
could watch what was happening.
As soon as he had found himself staring down into that woman's beautiful green eyes he had known
there would be trouble. He had told himself to get out of this place, instinct warning that he would wind
up risking his fool neck for those green eyes if he stayed. For once he had given himself good advice. Too
bad he hadn't listened.
Being the end result of a white man and a Dakota woman, and having a past that too many people knew
about, Derrick didn't have to look for trouble--it looked for him. Which gave him more reason to stay out
of other people's fights.
He heard the boy yell at the man called Dexter. The man made a torrid reply and then ran his finger
across the woman's pale cheek.
Derrick picked up his shot glass and downed the rye whiskey in one swallow. He had come into
Cheyenne for a long night in the arms of a willing, well-paid female. Rescuing a woman with envy-green
eyes, which he had noticed while trying not to, didn't fit into his plans, but he had to do something.
"Damn it!" He slammed the empty glass down on the bar. Still watching the mirror he called out to the
men behind him. "How about letting the boy and his sister go? You've had your little bit of fun." The
saloon's customers on either side of him scattered away like fleas leaving a dying dog.
Dexter turned to face Derrick's back. "And what you gonna do if we ain't
through havin' our fun yet?"
Derrick unhooked his boot heel from over the brass rail at the bottom of the bar, tilted his hat back, and
turned. "Then you and your three friends won't be walking out of here...your worthless bodies will have
to be carried out." He moved forward some, his steps echoed in the strained silence, silence that seemed
to wait hungrily for what would come.
Derrick stood prepared, nerves tense but steady. He eased the left side of his long coat back, exposing
his revolver, worn backwards. Experience had taught him he could draw faster this way. When the time
came, if it came, his right hand would cross in front of his waist with lightning speed, draw and fire in one
smooth, deadly quick movement.
Dexter laughed, a smug, confident smile on his bearded face. "What good you reckon one revolver's
gonna do against the four of us? Even if you manage to drop one of us, the others will get you." He
shifted the big plug of tobacco in his jaw and spat on the floor. "Any way you wanna look at it, I ain't
gonna stand for no damn half-breed tellin' me what to do."
Cassandra was grateful for the stranger's help, but feared that help could cost the man his life. But then
it happened, the thing she had hoped for; Dexter turned his full attention toward the stranger. The other
three men, probably figuring she couldn't be a real threat, weren't paying her any mind. It left her with
the opening she needed.
In a flash she held her Deringer in hand. She placed the tip of the barrel against the back of Dexter's
neck, just above his coat collar. "Looks like you better count again, mister. The way I see it, it's two
against four, and I'll give you one guess where my first bullet's going?" she hissed, making each word
sound more like a promise than a threat.
"Best make that three to four," added the barkeeper as he raised his rifle over the bar and pointed it
toward Dexter.
Cassandra released a tense breath. One more weapon on her side meant Chase and she, and the
stranger, might get out of this mess in one piece.
Dexter seemed none too happy with having two guns held on him at one time. Keeping his hands in
plain sight, he yelled across the room, "This ain't none of your business, barkeep. What the hell you
riskin' a hole in your gut for?"
The barkeeper answered, "That lady behind you makes it my business. I owe her father a favor or two.
Besides, I reckon I'm doing you the biggest favor. Don't you know who you're facing, or you just got
yourself a death wish?"
The stranger smiled, but it didn't soften the look of hate on his face. "Name's Derrick...Derrick Forrest."
Dexter took a sudden step back, but froze again when Cassandra pushed her weapon harder against his
thick neck. What of the side of his face she could see through his shaggy beard and mustache paled as
he moved his big hands, easy like, further away from his sides. She had no idea who Derrick Forrest was,
but Dexter seemed to know.
"You two let go of the little lady's brother," Dexter said, glancing nervously toward his friends.
The two men released Chase. Cassandra reached around Dexter and picked up her Colt Dragoon from
the table. She kept both guns on Dexter as she moved to her brother's side. She didn't worry much
about the other three men, sure they wouldn't make a move without an order from Dexter. At his point,
he wasn't likely to try anything.
Chase had his revolver trained on the two men who had held him. Cassandra gave her brother a sideways
nod and together they backed to where the stranger she now knew as Derrick Forrest waited.
When they reached him, he moved in front of them protectively, his revolver still holstered. From the way
he worked the long fingers on his free hand opened and closed, Cassandra knew he was ready to change
that if one of the men in front of them did as much as twitch a nose hair.
"Lady, you and your brother get out of here."
Chase took a step back, but Cassandra didn't move. "We all go out together or we all stay," she insisted.
She might not have been able to see Derrick's face to judge his reaction to her words, but she noticed his
hand tighten into a fist for a second before he started working his fingers again.
"Have you lost your mind, lady? Now get out of here!"
The harsh tone of his voice might have run any other woman off, but not Cassandra. She didn't move an
inch. "No! Not without you," she countered with the closest match to his stern tone she could manage.
"You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for us, and I'm not about to walk out of here and leave you
holding my bag of rattle snakes."
He shook his head as if he couldn't believe she would dare to disagree with his orders.
When he gave no other reply, she added, "If you'd prefer, we could stand here all night and argue." She
hoped he didn't prefer. Things were going their way, but fate could deal a different ending if they hung
around.
"All right, damn it!" he finally gave in. "Start backing your way out slow and steady. I'm coming."
Indian Beads & Sliver Spurs
