Fair Is the Rose (20 page)

Cain put her on his saddle and they set off at a lope toward Camp Brown. Once more in his arms, stunned at the about-face of her circumstances, Christal gazed at the flat landscape, her entire being consumed with the need to flee. In truth, she didn't want to go, to leave him. Now that they'd both faced death, she knew a lot more about her feelings toward him, and the thought of leaving sent an ache through her soul.

But if he had been dangerous before, now he was suicide. All along she'd known that a lady had no business falling in love with an outlaw.

But a woman who was wanted in New York could never even
look
at a lawman.

Christal didn't know how to flee. Running from outlaws was simple. They expected runaways and they felt no moral duty to bring them safely back to camp. But the cavalry was something else. When they rescued a white woman from a band of renegades, they expected the woman to rest, to need time to recuperate from her trauma. They didn't expect her first desire to be escape. And if such a strange occurrence happened, and the girl did flee, then they would feel a deep moral obligation to go out and "rescue" the poor confused maiden, and Christal knew they would do it again and again, if need be, until she understood they meant her no harm.

Though she'd been there only a few hours, she let out a quiet moan as she despaired of leaving Camp Brown. The old abandoned fort was miles from everything. The closest settlement was the Wind River Indian Reservation and she had no business there among the Shoshone with her flaxen hair.

Raising her hands, she let the women around her dress her in a much too large ratty pink silk ballgown. Indian squaws tended to her, Mandan women, known for their free ways among white men. Christal had seen many of them in the plains towns. Their tribe had been decimated by smallpox, so they scraped together an existence by frequenting forts and mining towns, and taking the leavings of the girls in the saloons. Coarse-featured, brown, and husky, they rarely got treated well. Now Christal felt even more empathy for them. They shared a strange sisterhood. The squaws were held captive by need as much as she was by fear.

The Mandan women left and Christal walked to the small window in her room, which she believed was the captain's former quarters. She was exhausted, but sleep was out of the question; too dangerous. Besides, there might be an Overland coach that afternoon to take passengers away. She wouldn't miss it, even if it meant giving up her seven gold pieces.

Wiping the glass of the window, she looked out into the center of the fort. The August sun hung on the horizon. Sweat beaded her brow and dust again dried her throat; she'd forgotten how hot it was on the prairie. She looked to the fort's gates and wondered if she could get past the two cavalry officers who had been posted there. They had no right to keep her, really. She could demand her gold pieces from Rollins and walk past the guards and just keep on walking. Her eyes darkened. But the marshals wouldn't like the fact she'd left without talking to them about the kidnapping. With all the cavalry at their disposal, they'd return her to "safety" in a matter of minutes. Then they'd want to know why she had run. And then she would have two choices: She could refuse to answer their questions, and thus raise their suspicions, perhaps even to the point that they would find out about her scar (the far better choice); or she could lie to them, claim abuse by the kidnappers, such terrible abuse that
any
men frightened her and all she had wanted to do was leave the fort and get away from so many of them. The marshals just might believe that story, but Cain would know she was lying. And his suspicions were far more frightening to her than those of the entire cavalry that now maneuvered on the drill field in the center of the fort.

She took a deep breath and ran shaky hands down her hair. Being surrounded by the law was her worst
nightmare come
true, save meeting face-to-face with Baldwin Didier. The Overland stage couldn't come quick enough, even if the prospect of leaving tore at her heart.

Macaulay Cain. Macaulay Cain.
The name echoed through her mind. She never wanted to think of him again. There was no good to come of their relationship before they'd been rescued. And now it was even worse.

A knock sounded at the door, snapping her out of her dark musings. She pulled up the shoulders of the faded pink gown, embarrassed that her bosom peeked out from beneath her chemise every time the dress slipped.

The knock sounded again, this time more urgent, and terror gripped her heart. She was consumed by the irrational thought that they'd discovered her, but sanity took over once more, and she realized it was unlikely. Twisting her hair in her hands and wishing she could pin it, she threw it over one shoulder and opened the door.

Her heart froze. Cain stood there, looking very different from the man she knew. He'd shaved and a strong jaw appeared where rough dark beard had been. With the beard gone, she realized he was far more handsome than she'd suspected. But he was still Macaulay Cain. The hard mouth and ice eyes were the same, and the combination, as always, proved mesmerizing.

She lowered her gaze to the rest of him. He'd bathed and donned civilized dress: dark trousers, white shirt, and a burgundy silk vest. His hair was slicked back and smelling of bay rum. If she'd been attracted to him as an outlaw, she had to admit she was even more drawn to him now. He was clean-shaven and restrained, and the facade suited him. Now his danger was subtle, as a whisper is more erotic than a shout.

"I hardly know you," she said in a low, cautious voice.

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. Looking as he did, he almost could have been one of the gamblers who'd come into the saloons she'd worked at, wanting to spend—or make—an ill-gained fortune. The gamblers she'd encountered had been powerful and violent men, men who gained on looks alone. They'd possessed enormous magnetism, and she'd always made a policy of avoiding them. But even they paled against Macaulay Cain.

She stepped away from the door, unsure of what to say. She didn't look at him; she didn't ask him to enter. She knew he would come in whether she permitted it or not.

"That dress is too big," he said, closing the door behind him.

She hugged the faded silk to her. "I need to take it in."

"So I see." His gaze caught hers. From the gleam in his eye, it was clear he approved of the dress. He was waiting for her to fall right out of it.

She turned away, suddenly, irrationally, embarrassed. They'd kissed, they'd slept together,
they'd
fought. But now he was a stranger to her.
A very threatening stranger.
The outlaw she'd grown to care about was gone and they had nothing to talk about.

Yet so much to talk about.

Gathering her courage, she still looked steadily away and said, "You should have told me that you were a marshal. It would have made things easier."

"I wasn't sure of your acting skills. I didn't want you to get hurt. Or get myself killed," he added.

"I understand." She glanced down at the dress. One shoulder had fallen revealing an expanse of smooth skin that plumped into the beginning of a breast. She pulled the gown up, hoping he hadn't seen much. But he'd seen it all if the fire smoldering in his cold eyes was any indication.

There was a long, difficult pause while they stared at each other. She broke it by saying, "Things are very different now, aren't they?
You're
very different."

"Things are better; I'm better," he countered, running a callused thumb along her collarbone. "I can talk to you now. I can tell you anything—you can tell me anything. I'm no longer your kidnapper. I'm just a man. A man you can trust." His gaze met hers.
Probing.

"I had begun to trust you anyway," she answered. Uncomfortable beneath his stare, she breezed past him to the mirror over the oak bureau and began plaiting her hair. All she thought about was running. She was afraid of his being a lawman, but mostly she was afraid of his being a man. He'd already taken her emotions and twisted them until she hardly knew what she was feeling. She couldn't let him continue. If she fell in love with him, with what she knew about him now, it would be suicide.

He came up from behind and watched her in the mirror. Not touching her, he said, "I get the feeling you trust me less now that you know I'm no outlaw."

The task of braiding her hair defeated her, and she dropped her shaking hands. A shot rang out—the cavalry going through their maneuvers on the drill field—and the noise frayed her nerves even more. Pushed to the edge, she snapped, "I just don't understand it—you call yourself a Rebel—you fought on the Confederate side-how can you work for Federals now? I just never expected—" She shook her head. Words escaped her; she worried she might have given away too much.

The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "You almost talk like a Secesh yourself. But you're just another protected Northern lily who had to be told about the war like a bedtime story. You must have been particularly fortunate, Christal. It took ten years for that war to be done and gone before you ever bothered to ask anyone about it."

Anger flared within her. She might have been a protected Northern girl for part of her life, but after that she'd had her own war to fight; she couldn't have gotten involved in his. Tersely, she answered, "I asked you about the war because I wanted to know about you. But everything about you has been a lie. And your Rebel background must have been a lie, too, because I don't understand how you can be a Confederate one minute and a Federal the next. A Rebel just couldn't do your job.
Not a real one, anyway."

"It's because I was a Rebel that I can do this job."

She expected the anger but not the bitterness. The emotion in his words made her ache.

"What do you think I got out of the war? You think I won it? You think I found honor and pride?" He took a deep breath. It seemed painful for him to speak. "I didn't find anything in that war except death and blood and loss. It's been ten years and I still can't find any meaning to it I can live with. The right and wrong is all messed up within my head. I know 'cause I look for it every day. That's why I can work for the Federals, Christal, because the damned war is long over. I'm no longer a man from Georgia, I'm a citizen of the United States, and the job I do is black and white.
Right and wrong.
What Kineson did was a crime. Justice has been served. I can move on to the next job without it eating my in-sides."

"But things aren't always that clear." She damned the panic in her voice. "Sometimes a crime isn't what it seems. You may have the facts, but the facts lie—"

"What are you talking about?"

She looked at him in the mirror. A frown marred his forehead. She couldn't tell him anything. After what he'd said, he'd have her tried and hanged before her uncle could even get to her.

"Christal, what is it?" His hands went around her waist, his warm, sure grip melting her sides. She fought the urge to draw back against his chest. But that chest beckoned her, and she longed to be enfolded in his arms, to touch him, kiss him. She wanted to make him understand things she thought the outlaw Macaulay Cain already knew: that sometimes there were reasons for crimes, sometimes crimes were misjudged.