Fair Is the Rose (23 page)

He gave her a rakish grin.

"No—well—all right, y-yes," she stuttered. "It's just that I haven't a lot of money. I never thought we'd be recompensed for our troubles."

"I hear he's bringing five hundred."

Her eyes opened wide. "Dollars?" she gasped.

"He ain't bringin' buffalo chips."

She took another sip of brew. Five hundred dollars split among seven passengers would be around seventy apiece—a good parcel. She again thought of her seven gold pieces and how hard they had come. She could almost taste her desire for more.

"What are you schemin' in that head of yours, dar-lin'?"

Her gaze returned to him. Macaulay made her nervous when he drank. Those eyes of his seemed to see right through her. It was as if he could read her mind. And his accent was much more pronounced. She really wasn't sure she liked that. His lazy words were ... seductive.

Coolly she said, "I was only thinking about a new dress. Seventy dollars can buy a lot of new dresses."

"Seventy? I said five hundred.
Apiece.
And you'll probably get more, seein' as how you're a lady, and all. They feel real bad about you gettin' tangled in this mess."

The whiskey burned down her throat, nearly choking her. She was in shock. Her dreams had come true. She could get Didier with five hundred dollars. She could hire a lawyer, even a Pinkerton man to build evidence against him.

He smiled as if he knew something she didn't. "Too bad you don't have that new dress now. That pink one is fallin' right off you." His gaze lowered to a point between her chin and her waist.

She blushed and looked down. Her entire shoulder and not a little of her bosom were exposed. She discreetly pulled up the pink silk.

"Better get them Mandans to take that gown in tonight. You want to look pretty in your picture when Scott presents you with your money."

"Picture?"

"That's right." He released a cynical little laugh. "You don't think that Yankee's gonna come all the way out here to give you some reward money and not get the credit for it? That ain't the way them Yankees work, dar-lin'. In fact tomorrow
there's
gonna be so many newspaper reporters here to take your picture, you'll be famous. After Scott's through with you, Barnum himself ll probably
sign
you up to be an attraction at his show." He
laughed,
disgust all over his face. "I can just see it now:
The Wild West Widow."
He took another sip of whiskey and said grimly, "Don't let him do it to you, Christal."

But Christal hardly heard it. Terror caused her to go deaf after he spoke the words
newspaper reporters.
She curled her branded palm around the warm tin cup, hiding it. Stuttering, she asked, "But—but how could reporters get here so quickly? We've only just been rescued."

Macaulay sat back in his chair, arms arrogantly crossed over his chest. "Darlin', this is a Yankee we're talkin' about. Terence Scott, that damned carpetbagger, had 'em sent up here days ago to get publicity from all this. Fort Washakie's just crawling with reporters. I heard tell they got 'em from as far away as Chicago.
Even New York."
He grunted in disgust.
"The show-off."

Her hands began to tremble. She clasped them in her lap.

"What is it, girl, you don't look too well."

"I—I guess the whiskey didn't agree with me," she stuttered. Trying with all her might to stay calm in the face of catastrophe, she said, "Do you mind if I go to my room? If tomorrow's going to be as you say it is, then I'll need my rest."

She stood and didn't know if it was whiskey, fear, or just plain exhaustion, but suddenly the room began to spin. She gripped the edge of the table to steady
herself
and received two splinters in her palm for the effort.

Macaulay's arm came gently around her waist. His finger brushed the faint lavender smudges beneath her eyes, proof of her weariness. "I guess you oughta be in bed, girl," he conceded.

But a hostile voice halted their departure. "Haven't you bothered her enough, Cain?"

Christal looked behind Cain and found Pete in the doorway, his sullen, angry expression epitomizing his youth.

Cain didn't answer. She knew his shoulder was still sore from the wound. Fighting with Kineson had opened it again and he'd spent that afternoon with the doctor. Now here was Pete, the boy who shot him, tempting him to pull his gun.

"You shouldn't let him near you, ma'am," Pete said, snatching his hat off his head in a show of respect. "I don't care what he is
now,
he treated you bad at the saloon. We all saw him."

"He had no choice," she said, her head beginning to throb. She couldn't deal with Pete right now. Not when she'd just lost five hundred dollars and her chance to find justice, and reporters were descending on Camp Brown first thing tomorrow.

"Didn't he?" The boy's lip, dusted with downy adolescent facial hair, lifted in contempt.

"I'm not in the habit of shootin' boys, son," Cain interjected in a voice cold enough to freeze. "But you better know
,
you're temptin' me, sorely."

"Yeah, I'd love a showdown with you, Cain. You need to learn how to treat a woman."

Christal shuddered. The boy's bravado was going to be the end of him. "No, Pete. Don't even think of it. He didn't hurt me. Not really. And what he did . . . well, he had to do it. He had to convince them that he was genuine. I've forgiven him. So must you."

"He was rough with you." Pete turned to her. She could see the worship in his eyes. If she didn't know better, she'd think the boy—though barely sixteen—had somehow fallen in love with her.

She touched his arm. "What's done is done, Pete. If Macaulay was less than gentlemanly, it was because he had to be. I'm not angry about it. Neither must you be."

"He still ain't good enough for you, ma'am." He looked at her and his eyes turned hopeful. "A woman beautiful like
yourself
needs courtin'. I—I can do a lot of that now that
me
and Pa got our money back."

The boy's passion and sincerity touched her. During the entire kidnapping, during all the years she'd spent out west, he had been her only knight. Impulsively she put her hand on his smooth cheek and ached over the fact that she would never see him again. "How I've longed to hear words like that, Pete," she whispered affectionately. "You'll never know how I'll cherish them in the years to come when you've married and long forgotten me."

The boy didn't seem to have the courage to touch her back. He stood there, planted in one spot, the emotion in his eyes churning as he appeared to squelch an inappropriate confession of love. Then, unable to help himself, he blurted out, "Mrs. Smith, I must tell you—"

"Some other time, kid," Macaulay interjected, casually putting his arm around her waist. He led her away and Christal went, relieved that Macaulay had made it unnecessary for her to discourage Pete's affections; and saddened, knowing she would never see the lionhearted boy again.

"You could have been kinder to him," she admonished when they crossed the fort's drill grounds.

"The damn fool kid shot me. Why should I be kind to him?"

"He thought you were an outlaw."

"He's too uppity—playing suitor to a grown woman."

"He's not that much younger than me."

His smile was derisive. "Why are you defending him, Christal? You got a penchant for robbing the cradle?" He suddenly laughed. If she hadn't had so much on her mind, she might have laughed also.

They came to the door of her quarters. Cain halted and looked at her.

"Well, I must go now. I—I really need some sleep." She suddenly felt bereft. There was so much she wanted to say to him, but there was no opportunity, or time. She would probably never see him again. In the morning, she would be gone. And Falling Water would become just a memory.

He tapped his boot on the plank walk. She could see the frustration in his eyes. He wanted her to stay the night with him, but there was no way to do it now that they were in civilization.

"Pete's right, you know," she said, thinking about all that Cain wanted and how shockingly improper it was. "You're not much of a gentleman. I know it just by looking into your eyes."

"Damn this situation. It's foolish for me to think of bringing you posies and courting you in the parlor after what we've been through."

"Yes, it is." She was silent for a moment, thinking how painfully true those words were. With her background, she was no longer a woman to be swayed by courtship. And he was no Romeo. She had seen him kill in Falling Water. She had glimpsed a side of him that was hard and violent, too unused to mercy and gentleness. The government certainly had a good man; the war had taught him well. It had taught him how to fight; how to win and how to lose. Macaulay Cain was a man who did what he had to do no matter how difficult, and he expected the same of others. That hardness attracted her; deluded
her
into believing it could protect her, but it couldn't. It made him that much more dangerous.
Because to him, there was right and wrong and nothing in between.
Losing the war had left him nothing to cling to but that ideal, and knowing him as she knew him
now,
she understood why he had become a marshal. His world had lost order; the law restored order. If he found out she was wanted in New York, he had a deep, personal need to see justice done. And that was what frightened her most.
Because she didn't believe in justice anymore.

Resigned to leaving at dawn, she looked at him and wondered how she would say good-bye.

He whispered, "Will you sleep all right tonight?"
Alone
went unspoken.

She didn't answer. If he heard regret in her voice, he'd never let her go.

"I'll miss you tonight, darlin'," he said softly.

She closed her eyes and smelled whiskey on his breath. She longed to taste it. Unnerved by her reaction, she looked down and touched the splinters in her palm. Two crimson droplets marred the rose.
Teardrops.
Her voice was husky. "You never told me, Macaulay. What are your plans now? Where are you going when you leave here?"