Angel

Chapter 30

That evening, Cassie didn’t wait for her mother, who stopped by to compliment the dining room staff on another excellent dinner. She wandered out to the lobby of the hotel, far enough until Catherine could no longer see her, then hurried over to the front desk to find out if any messages had been left for her.

She’d managed to get away from her mother a couple of times each day to check at the desk, even if she had to wait until Catherine retired for the night. Since they had separate, though connecting, rooms, that was easy enough to do, but she didn’t like going down to the lobby that late by herself.

Tonight she wouldn’t have to, or so she had hoped. But when she was only about five feet away from the desk, she was stopped.

“Don’t I know you, miss?”

Cassie couldn’t help staring — again. It was the young man from the dress shop, who Catherine had been disappointed to find wasn’t there when they’d entered it. He’d been whisked away to a back room with his lady friend, so she couldn’t repay his rudeness that afternoon. Cassie was being rude herself by staring, but he was mesmerizing in his handsomeness, with russet-tinged blond hair, dark emerald-green eyes, a smooth-shaven face without an imperfection on it, and such style in an impeccable charcoal three-piece suit.

“Miss?” he repeated.

“No,” Cassie replied abruptly.

She managed to control her embarrassment at being asked twice, consoling herself that he was probably accustomed to having women of all ages stare bemusedly at him. She wondered where his lady friend was tonight, and if she really was his kept woman.

“Are you sure we haven’t met?”

“Positive,” Cassie assured him. “We merely frequent the same dress shop.”

He smiled then. “Ah, yes, the young lady with the harridan for a companion.”

She arched a brow. He was certainly consistent in his insulting manner. “That harridan was my mama. Is it arrogance that makes you so rude, mister, or maybe you just don’t know any better?”

“It’s an art form, actually, that the ladies of my acquaintance find quite challenging.”

Cassie had a feeling he really believed that. She almost laughed, but restrained herself. Instead she warned him, “You’ll be in for a challenge of the real sort if you stick around, mister, because my mama will probably unpack her gun if she finds you talking to me.”

She thought that that would send him on his way, but he merely gave her a sure-she-will look and humored her by asking, “Your mama carries a gun?”

“Only when she comes to the city.”

“But St. Louis isn’t dangerous.”

“That’s why she packs her Colt away. She usually wears it, you see.”

“Don’t tell me you’re from out West?”

Cassie wondered at the man’s sudden surprise. “What if we are?”

“But I find that fascinating,” he replied, and she didn’t doubt for a second that he was sincere in his new interest. “Have you ever seen real Indians? Or witnessed one of those street duels we hear about?”

She wasn’t going to answer that. She’d met people like him before who were avid to hear about the “wild” West, but would never try to experience it themselves. Even with the boom towns that continuously sprang up with the advance of new rail lines, the gold and silver towns that came and went with each new strike, the cow towns, all only days away now by train, folks like him wouldn’t leave their safe, civilized cities to see any of them, though they thrived on hearing about the primitive frontier and all its bloody aspects.

She decided to be ornery and answer after all. “We spot small bands of renegade Indians every so often, but they only bother the isolated settler and the occasional stagecoach. They aren’t nearly as troublesome as they used to be. But I was in a Shootout myself just last month. It was over too quick to be all that exciting, and mine wasn’t the killing bullet. That honor went to a fast gun named Angel. Actually, they call him the Angel of Death. Ever heard of him?”

“I can’t say that I have,” he answered. “Why ‘the Angel of Death’?”

“Because he never misses what he aims at and he always shoots to kill.” And she’d wasted enough time being ornery. “Now you’ll have to excuse me, mister—”

“Bartholomew Lawrence, but my friends call me Bart. And you are?”

“Cassandra — Angel.”

She’d paused too long over the “Angel.” His look said he doubted she’d told him the truth. She didn’t care what he believed. He was keeping her from her goal, and she’d run out of time. Catherine had suddenly appeared at the entrance to the dining room and was glancing around the lobby for her.

“But that�d be Mrs. Angel to you,” Cassie added, curtly now, since she was annoyed with herself for talking to the man in the first place.

She moved off without another word to him. She had about ten seconds, before her mama joined her, to ask at the desk for any messages. She did that, and was amazed to have a note handed to her. Cassie had just managed to palm it when Catherine came up behind her. She’d walked right past Bartholomew Lawrence without recognizing him.

“Cassie, what are you doing?”

Cassie turned to find that Lawrence was still standing where she’d left him, within hearing distance. But if she did anything well, it was coming up with ridiculous excuses on the spur of the moment.

“I was just checking to see if Angel had joined us yet, Mama.” And then she added meaningfully, “Right now is one of those times he’d come in handy.”

Catherine followed her gaze to Lawrence and understood instantly. The man actually laughed, having heard Cassie, though he did leave then.

But Catherine was now visibly bristling. “Was he bothering you?”

“Not really. He recognized me and struck up a conversation to introduce himself.”

“And to apologize?”

“I hinted that one was owed, but he calls his rudeness an art form, obviously one he strives to perfect. At any rate, I found him obnoxious enough that I tried to put the ‘fear of Angel’ into him. He didn’t believe me.”

“It takes seeing that gunfighter of yours to believe he’s a cold-blooded killer.”

“He’s not—”

“Never mind,” Catherine cut in and ushered them toward the stairs. “But I’m definitely unpacking my gun.”