Fair Is the Rose (24 page)

"I've run with my last gang. I'm gonna settle down and get a nice, quiet job. I've heard rumors that one's waiting for me in Washington."

"Whatever you do, you'll do it well."

"Would you come with me to Washington?"

His offer shocked her. It was so unexpected. "I—"

"We could go for a while," he said, cutting off her answer. "We could even take a trip to New York. I'll buy you the finest dress this side of the Atlantic."

Her heart stopped in her chest. She gave a silent prayer of thanks they were in shadows so he couldn't see the horror on her face. "I—I can't—go there with you. I've—I've got to be other places."

"Where?" he asked, his tone daring her not to answer him.

"I've got to resume my life."

"But
where"
he demanded, his patience coming to an end.

She gazed up at his face, so close, so angry. Seconds ticked by; time, all she had left, fell through her fingers like grains of sand.

"We'll talk about it in the morning." She grasped the doorknob of the captain's room,
then
the finality of their parting struck deep within her heart.

She would never see him again. Never watch his lean, hard features soften in moonlight. Never hear his harsh command, or whispered need. There were no more possibilities.

Unable to hold back, she took his face in her hands and pulled him down to her, kissing him as if she could never bear to let him go. She kissed with a longing not fated to be satisfied, and that made it all the more bittersweet, all the more imperative that her lips drink fully of his, that her mind remember each tiny detail: the way his chest hardened against hers as he wrapped her in his arms, the way his breath came quick and shallow when she opened her mouth and let him in. She must seize the moment now, so that in the lonely nights ahead she would have some comfort.

He groaned, and she felt his arm go around her bottom. His excitement was all too apparent. If she'd let him, she thought, he'd take her right where they stood, skirts and rough planking be damned. But if they consummated their relationship, then she would never leave tomorrow. And if she didn't leave on that stage at dawn, she was doomed.

With near violence she ended the kiss, stepping away while her lips trembled with a muffled sob. He whispered her name like a man in agony, but she shook her head, unable to look at him and show him her tears. She left him and closed the door, wiping each moist cheek with the back of her hand. A moment of silence passed, broken only by his curse. The last thing she heard was his boot heels on the rough floorboards, walking away.

Damn him!
She never cried and now it seemed she couldn't stop. She longed to wallow in her grief, but she couldn't afford the luxury. She had a million things to think about, a million things to fill her mind. But she could only think about the sound of those boot heels, echoing over and over again in her heart.

It was almost dawn when Christal heard the door slam in the room next to her. For hours she'd been sitting on the edge of her bed waiting for the first rosy hint of sunrise. Her room was still in total darkness; she didn't dare light a lantern and arouse suspicion.

A loud curse, then the sounds of a body stumbling into a chair emanated from the plank walls. Against her better judgment, she rose from the bed and put her ear to the wall. She was sure it was Cain. There was another bump, then another curse, and she knew it was.
Especially when he started drunkenly singing "The Bonnie Blue Flag."

"Hurrah! Hurrah!
for
Southern Rights, hurrah!"
First one boot, then the other clunked to the floor. There was a pause in the singing, and she bet he was swilling from a bottle. Her lips curved in a cynical smile when he burped.

"Hurrah!
for
the Bonnie Blue Flag that bears a Single Star!"
The sound of a bunch of coins being flung onto a bureau rattled through the wall. Then the voice became morose. Inexplicably, he changed songs. He sang in a rude drunken voice,
"In Amsterdam I met a maid, mark well what I do say!"

A body fell onto a bed that was not six inches from her hand.
"In Amsterdam I met a maid, and she was mistress of her trade. I'll go no more a-rovin with you, fair maid!"
He banged on the wall with his fist. If she didn't know he was drunk and irrational, she'd think he was trying to wake her up to anger her with the words of his song.
"A-rovin!
A-rovin! Since rovin's been my ru-i-in."
The body rolled over.
"I'll go ... no more . . . a-rovin' . . . with you . . . fair . . . maid. . . ."
She could hear deep, even breathing. He'd fallen into a drunken sleep.

Nonplussed, she sat back on her bed, but her mind kept wandering to the coins. She was as destitute as she had ever been. Sometime that day she would arrive in Noble with only the dress on her
back,
and one much too large for her at that. Everyone would think she was a whore. It would be hard to disprove. But if she had a few coins, she could take a room overnight in South Pass, purchase a needle and thread, and reconstruct the ballgown into something more modest. Then at least she'd have a chance at a decent job dealing faro, or pouring drinks, or selling dances.

Outside, the sky was lightening to a lead gray. There wasn't much time.

She silently opened her door. The fort's gate was closed, the sentries posted. The coach hadn't arrived yet. Sliding along the shadows, she walked to the door next to hers. She put her ear to the keyhole. The breathing was steady and loud. Cain was dead asleep.

She opened the door. It made a sorry-sounding creak and she stopped in her tracks. But Cain didn't move. Feeling braver, she walked into the tiny room. He was sprawled across a canvas army cot clad in only his black pants and suspenders. His chest, sprinkled liberally with dark hair, rose and fell with his heavy breathing. One arm was flung across his eyes, his mouth was slightly parted. He reeked of whiskey. Next to him was a small table, coins scattered across it and on the floor.

Tiptoeing to the table, she was blessed as the sun finally broke the horizon and thin gray light filtered in through the tiny window. She knew she should be about her business, but she was unable not to take just one last look at him.

Time suspended for a moment as she stood over him. Cain made a disgraceful sight. His hair was tousled, almost black against the white canvas of the cot. He'd been clean-shaven the night before, but now there was the dark shadow of a beard across his jaw. She didn't know why he'd decided to go out and get drunk. Perhaps for part of the reason she was running away. They were drawn to each other. But it never seemed right. It never would be right.

It hurt her to think about it, but she couldn't erase the picture in her mind that one day his wife would look down upon him just as she was now. She'd be up early, perhaps to make his coffee, and she'd find him sprawled as he was now. She would tenderly touch his brow and smile a secret smile as she thought of the fury of the night before. And then, when she was ready to depart for the kitchen, Cain's hand would reach out and pull her back to bed . . .

Cain suddenly let out a loud, drunken snore, startling Christal back into reality.

Quietly she began groping for each penny scattered on the floor—a pittance compared to the seven gold pieces she'd have to leave behind with him. All told, there was at best a couple of dollars. He'd probably spent most of his money on the bottle that, now empty, lay on the floor beside the cot.

She found his old bandanna on a peg with his coat and tied up the coins in it. She stuffed them down her dress between her corseted breasts. With any luck—of which she had none lately—the money would be safe there.

He groaned and her heart quickened. She took one step for the door but was so
nervous,
her toe hit the upended whiskey bottle. It rolled across the raw floorboards, making a clatter when it thunked against the wall.

Still as a mannequin, she watched him, stricken by the terrible thought that he'd awakened. Staring down at him, she was relieved that he didn't move, but his breathing had become quieter. Suddenly he groaned and rolled over, revealing much of his backside from the loosened lacings that fitted the waist of his pants. The snoring resumed once more.

Grimly, she wiped the sheen of unshed tears from her eyes. There was no more time. Reporters were headed toward Camp Brown even now. She looked down at him one last time. On impulse, she lowered her head and gave him a feather-light kiss on his cheek. Like his wife, she tenderly caressed his brow.

She crept from his room, heartbroken.

She placed her hand upon my toe,

Mark well what I do say!

She placed her hand upon my toe,

I said, "Young Miss, you're rather low!"

I'll go no more a-rovin' with you, fair maid.

Cain groaned and tossed on the cot. It was a dream and the reason he knew this was because his head didn't pound as it surely was going to when he woke up. He wasn't one to drink the way he had last night, but the lack of a hangover didn't make her any less real to him.

It didn't take the edge off the fear.

He sat up naked on the cot, still dreaming. She stood in the doorway in her weeds, dressed in black from hem to head, the jet-colored veil swirling around her face.
An angel in thunder clouds.

He stared at her, unable to look away. The fear was like a cold ball in his gut. He wanted to protect her. She needed protection. But he didn't know how.

"Who are you?" he
rasped,
the need to know burning within him like the whiskey he'd drunk.

She walked toward him, her black-draped body sinfully cinched and curved, her clothes accentuating what they most sought to hide, forbidden to him, yet wanton. He held his breath.

At the cot, she paused, and he hesitantly reached out for the veil.
Death.
He hated it. He'd eaten it like beans and hardtack during the war. Mercilessly he ripped it from her face. Her beauty hit him like a fist in the groin. It was those eyes.
As blue as the prairie sky, as haunting as a Paiute ghost chant.