Fair Is the Rose (28 page)

"Pay first, is it?" he whispered.

"No." She tried to remove his hands from her bodice.

"C'mon. It's time. How many dances do I gotta pay for?"

"As many as you want because that's all that's for sale."

"You
teasin'?"
He wouldn't let her go.

Her eyes turned as frosty as her voice. "No."

His arm became a vise. For a slim man, he was strong and wiry. "Then I want my money back."

"You'll have to take that up with the management." She dug her fingernails into the back of his hand. His hold only grew more painful. She almost couldn't breathe.

Faulty walked by, his gaze fixed on someone by the door, his eyes filled with anxiety. Normally he watched his girls like a hawk. At the first sign of trouble, he was always there. Now he went past, not even seeing her.

She was about to call to him when he announced to everyone in the saloon, "Drinks are on the house to welcome our new sheriff!"

At the word
sheriff,
the blond man dropped his cruel hold around her waist. Christal backed away, thankful for the reprieve even if it did mean coming face-to-face with a sheriff. She turned toward the door where all eyes were glued to the stranger.

Her heart stopped.

If she were a blind woman, she'd have known that face just by touch. There was Noble's new sheriff, his tall form slouched against the wall, still wearing the blue Federal-issue greatcoat he'd ridden into town with and the black felt Stetson, pulled low so that no one—just she alone—could see his cold gaze fixed on her. It was Cain.

Her prayers would have been answered if the earth had cracked open beneath her and swallowed her up whole. But the earth stayed as frozen solid as the prairie beyond town. She just stood there while Joe began playing "Dixie," unwittingly mocking her.

There were only three thoughts in her head at that moment. She would have sworn upon her life that it was the first time the Reb had ever worn blue. Her second thought answered the question that had plagued her since August. Had she fallen in love with Macaulay Cain? Now she knew.

Now she knew.

Someone poured the sheriff a whiskey, and he turned his eyes from her while cowhands slapped him on the back, welcoming him into town.

Her gaze didn't leave him. It would be like turning away from a poised tiger.

In shock, she still couldn't understand how he could be standing near the door, the new sheriff of Noble. She closed her eyes, clinging to the hope that her sight was lying to her, sure that the next time she looked the face beneath that black Stetson would belong to some other man, not
him.
But then she looked again, and her gaze met his from across the room, and there was no denying it. He'd found her. Or the most abominable coincidence ever to happen had just occurred.

Then the last thought finally hit her.

Run,
it said.

"C'mon and have a drink with me."

As if waking from a nightmare, Christal blinked several times as she looked up at the blond man. She glanced over at Cain and this time found his gaze not on her but on the man standing next to her. She could see he'd seen the man dance with her. And touch her hair. And want more.

She could also see he didn't like it.

"I've got to go," she mumbled, too distracted even to look at the gent.

He grabbed her. "I still want my money's worth."

"No . . . no . . . the sheriff . . ." She nodded her head toward Macaulay.

The man looked at the sheriff and freed her. Wildly, she looked around for Faulty. He was in the middle of the fray. Men had bellied up to the bar to get their free drink. The sheriff was now talking with Dixiana.
And smiling.
This was her chance.

Christal slipped from the noisy, raucous crowd and tiptoed up the stairs, damning every jingle of the bells around her ankles. She got to her room and without even thinking, she pulled out a small, worn carpetbag she'd bought in South Pass. She also pulled out her "new" widow's weeds, which she'd also bought in South Pass— with Macaulay's money.

She swallowed the fear rising in her throat. Numbly she stuffed her belongings into the carpetbag, not caring whether things got wrinkled or torn. She was too frightened to be bothered with details. She had stolen his money. Did he remember?

A surge of terror passed through her. Of course he remembered. She could tell just by his gaze that he remembered.

She stuffed the remainder of her things into the carpetbag. Where she would go, what she would do hadn't yet sunk in. At the moment, she couldn't be rational. Because there was a sheriff downstairs who was bound to ask a lot of questions, questions she didn't want to answer. So it was time to leave. She didn't believe in coincidence. The only reason he'd come to Noble was to see her. If he got her alone, he was going to get his answers even if it destroyed her.

She blew out the lamp and clutched the heavy carpetbag in her hands. In back of Ivy's room was a small wash porch that had stairs leading to the rear of the saloon. She would exit there and then she would
go ...
?

Defying the impossibilities, she wrapped her heavy shawl around her and put her hand on the door. She would think about where to go when her feet hit the snow and the saloon was far behind.

Her palm slowly turned the doorknob; her mind whirled with unanswered questions. What had he been doing since Camp Brown? Why had he come for her now? Had he found out she was wanted? Had he come to send her back to the asylum and her uncle?

She opened the door.

And froze.

He stood there, silhouetted by the lamps in the stairwell. She tried to slam the door closed, but his hand gripped its edge and held it. Her strength was no match for his. He pushed it open and walked into her room.

She backed away in the darkness like a trapped animal. The scene at the saloon in Falling Water was repeating itself, but this time the fear was different. He wasn't an outlaw come to rape her, he was a sheriff she had stupidly fallen in love with, come to drag her back to New York and betray her need for secrecy.

"You are a cool one, girl. I'll give you that," he said in that deep, scratchy voice she had thought she'd never hear again.

She stared at his familiar form, wondering desperately when Wyoming Territory had gotten too small to hide in. "Why are you here? Why did they elect you sheriff?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he struck a phosphorus match and lit the lamp she had just blown out.

In the light, she could see every angry plane of his face. There were times after she'd left Camp Brown that she wished she could see his face just one more time. The yearning had been an ache, bitter and deep, never to be erased. But she'd never imagined she'd see him again. Especially not like this.

She wanted to stammer and weep and run. Instead she stood deathly still and in a calm voice said, "You're a U.S. Marshal. You were promised a job in Washington. I don't understand why you would even consider coming here to play sheriff."

"The last time I saw you, you forgot something." He slammed it onto her bedside table.

She looked down to see what it was. To her surprise she saw one of her seven gold pieces. Another coin was slammed onto the table. Another, and then another, until all seven coins were there.

She fingered the coins,
then
summoned the courage to look at him. It struck her that she had never seen eyes so devoid of warmth, eyes as frigid as the hellish winter prairie.

A cold fear settled into her heart. He was angry she had stolen from him. And perhaps angrier still she had never said good-bye.

"Why did you come here?" she whispered bravely.

"I told you I wasn't going to run with any more gangs. So why not come here?" He captured her gaze. "You're here."

She swallowed. "But I don't want to be here. No one in his right mind does."

He stared at her, his eyes not missing the smallest detail of her garb. She was dressed like a prostitute, no one could deny it. Confusion ran deep in his eyes, along with a strange kind of betrayal. "Maybe I'm not in my right mind," he whispered.

She had a difficult time keeping the fear from her voice. There was no point in delaying the inevitable any longer. "Did you come here for me, then?"

His gaze locked with hers. "Come here for you?
Because you stole my money and left without a fare-thee-well?
No, I don't think so. If I were to come all this way for you, I think it'd have to be for something more than
that,
don't you?"

She could feel the blood drain from her face. He knew about New York. That was what he was implying. She'd come to the end of the line. In a whisper, she said, "What is it you know about me that you've followed me here?"

"What do I know about you?" The betrayal deepened in his eyes, along with the confusion. His lips twisted in disgust. "Not a goddamned thing. How about that? I almost died twice for you back in Falling Water and here I'm not sure I know your real name. When I last saw you, you were the virtuous widow; now I find you here, dancing willingly in a stranger's arms, acting like a common—"

"Don't." She didn't know how she summoned the strength, but somehow she straightened her back and jutted her chin. "You don't know what I am. So don't say it."

Bitter curiosity was deep in every tanned line of his face. "Why are you here, Christal? They told me you were working in a saloon and I couldn't believe it. You aren't doing it for the money—you've got five hundred dollars due you from Terence Scott. And you had an offer from me. You had me. ..." His voice seemed to catch, but it happened so quickly, she thought it might have been her imagination.

His anger turned quiet. "I would have looked after you, girl. Hell, I asked you to go with me to Washington. Is what you have here better?" He looked around her barren little room in contempt.

She clutched her carpetbag, saying nothing. She was relieved and strangely heartbroken at the same time. He didn't know about her. She still had a chance to escape detection, but only if she could make him go back to Washington.